You Become
by Moonstone369
Summary: In 1958, Enzo was the one to escape, leaving Damon to the Augustines for the next 40 years. In 2009, Elena's near death encounter on Wickery Bridge awakens the ability to see a literal ghost from her past-Damon Salvatore, Permanent Resident of the Other Side. An AU exploration of what makes someone real. Delena
1. What is Real?

**This is a story I've been working on that I can work on without new canon from season 7 messing it up for me. I've always loved reading AU "What if?" stories, so this is my shot at that. This is based off of the change that Damon and not Enzo is the one that gets left behind at the Augustines. I'm trying to follow all of the ripples out of how that would ultimately change things while still operating within in canon. Let me know what you think of this beginning.**

" _It doesn't happen all at once— **You Become**. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are **Real** , most of you hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby._

 _But these things don't matter at all, because once you are **Real** you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand. Once you are **Real** you can't become unreal. It lasts for always."_

 _Margery Williams_

Nancy greets me as I come off the school bus instead of my dad. It's okay though. She's my favorite of the ladies who work in my dad's office. She gives good hugs and her pockets are always full of candies. When she takes my hand, there's a foil-wrapped chocolate in it. I smile up at her and she winks at me.

"Your father's still with a patient, but he'll be done in a bit," she tells me as I follow her back behind the receptionist's counter. A small desk waits for me there with my colors and some of my favorite books.

I shed my backpack and my winter layers before sliding into the small chair and opening my box of crayons. I don't really feel like coloring though. The new coloring book I got for Christmas with the fairies and the mermaids is at home. I close the crayons and page through _The Velveteen Rabbit_ , resting my head against the crook of my elbow. I can't read it myself yet, but I know all the words by heart.

" 'What is Real?' the rabbit asked," I whisper to myself while tracing the watercolor illustration of a worn rocking horse with a reverent finger.

A distant but startling sound interrupts my recitations. I lift my head and search the quiet offices. Nancy is gone, the waiting room empty. I stare at the door that leads to the exam rooms and wait. Unpleasant noises sometimes come from that direction, and I hope this is just another victim of an unwelcome shot.

I don't like needles either, but my dad always says they're worth it to keep us healthy.

I trust him.

A scream draws my attention away from the exam rooms and towards one of the few places that keeps my night light in commission. The echoing wail is coming from the basement. I look around for Nancy or my dad, but there's still no sign of them. My stomach twists with the feeling I get when I eat too much ice cream. Something more pressing, an itching in the back of my brain, has me standing at the top of a staircase looking down. My little brother's face calling me a scaredy-cat urges me forward.

The screaming has stopped, but a different noise grows louder as I approach. The clinking of playground swings accompanies a strange smell, like roses—burnt ones.

I stop short of a door I've never opened. I know I'm not allowed. I can hear my dad telling me this is a _kid-free zone_. I believe everything he says, because my dad is my hero. That's also why I know if there's someone in there that needs my help, I have to try my best.

The swings are louder, and I can hear groaning. The cold metal knob is too big in my small grip but twists with ease in my small fingers. I'm greeted by blue lights and metal. The swings have stopped but the burnt roses and something metallic are leaving a bad taste in my mouth. The room is bigger than I thought. It's kind of like another exam room with a bed and tables, but sort of like a kitchen too. There's a sink and refrigerators, and I think that's an oven. I can understand why this is a kid-free zone. There are things at home in the kitchen I'm not allowed to touch or play near either.

I'll just have to be careful.

I step around some of the tables to see the rest of the room. I still don't know where the cries came from—or why they stopped. When I take another step, my sneaker splashes and clinks against something. There's a metal drain in the floor like in the locker rooms at the swimming pool. A pale pink liquid swirls around it.

I look up and gasp. The man's eyes that meet mine are wide—and blue. As blue or bluer than my friend Caroline's. I've always been jealous of Caroline's blue eyes because I think they make her pretty. Boys aren't supposed to be pretty.

This man isn't pretty, but his eyes are. The rest of him looks horrible. He's lying on a metal cot that's bolted to the white tile floor of what looks like a large shower stall. The floor and wall are bother tiled, and there's a large shower head directly above the cot. His shirt is damp and looks like it used to be white but is now mottled with pink and gray. Maybe his mom washed it with a red sock too. Dark curls fall over his forehead; a few pieces stick in what must be sweat there. His skin is gray everywhere but beneath his eyes which is as dark as a bruise. The only color in his face is the blue of his eyes and raw red lips. He looks sick—and thirsty.

"I'm Elena," I offer. Some people are shy around strangers; I know I am. The man with blue eyes blinks, and his lips part a bit. "Do you want some water?" He starts to smile I think, but winces instead. He looks at me and nods.

I look around with some urgency. There's a counter with a sink, but no glasses. Maybe I should go get my dad. I frown, apologetic, at the man before I spot them on a lower shelf I can reach. I cross him to open the glass-paned cabinet and pull out an empty beaker. I know from my dad that you're not supposed to drink from beakers, but an empty one seems safe enough. I've broken so many rules today that helping the sick man is the only thing that might make it worth it.

I open the cabinet below the sink and step up on the ledge it gives me. I can just reach the handles. I pull the cold side, fill the beaker half full and jump down without spilling any. I'm smiling with triumph at my cleverness as I turn back to the blue-eyed man. His smile is full this time despite whatever pain it causes him.

When I hand him the beaker, I realize why I was hearing swings before. Metal chains attached to cuffs around his wrists disappear behind his cot, bolted into the floor by the wall. His eyes follow mine, but he says nothing, just takes a painful swallow from the beaker and then another. He's holding it by the bottom because it's as far as the chains allow. He finishes and hands it back to me. I replace it with care in the cabinet where I found it to avoid getting into more trouble.

I wonder at the chains, but my belief in my father is absolute. I remember the duct-taped mittens I wore when I had the chicken pox or the plastic cone the neighbors dog had to wear after it got into a fight with a opossum. They were worth it—like the shots I hated.

"Thank you, Elena," his hoarse voice makes me jump, "I'm Damon."

"Does it hurt?" I ask when I look back at him.

He thinks on the question and answers only, "Sometimes."

Damon reaches with a clink up to a wadded material tied around his neck and rips at a spot it's already torn. He tosses it aside with the same triumphant smile I wore earlier.

"That's better!" he declares. I giggle, and he looks back at me with a smirk. His lips and the skin around them look better now. I feel good that I've helped him—proud even, but I know there are some things only my dad can help.

"Are you sick? Is my dad helping you? I can go get him for you." My triumph and his smile make me brave, reassuring me that I'm doing a good thing at least, if not something I'm supposed to. His response to this is jolting. I jump back at the anger that flashes across his face. Like a cartoon character, fire leaks in around his bright eyes. The dark skin below them seems to ripple; there's something strange about the way he clenches his teeth.

For the first time since convincing myself that I've been silly to be scared of the basement, I'm afraid. This seems to dawn on Damon because the strangeness of his features falls away along with his anger. He replaces it with regret, but now that I've seen it, the secret menace behind his eyes won't go away. I realize with embarrassed shame that there are tears running down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Damon offers. He looks as though he means it, "I didn't mean to scare you, Elena."

"It's okay," I manage with more whimper in my voice than I would like.

"So the Doc is your dad, huh?" A grin and a half cover his face now. I nod and smile a little in return. "I bet he helps a lot of sick people—your dad." I nod again and smile wider. I've always been proud of my dad, but there's something tired and sad in the way Damon says it.

"Not you?" I find myself asking.

He smiles again. "I thought I scared all of the words out of you." I blush as Damon shakes his head and sighs. "No, I'm not sick," he breathes, "but I have something special in my blood that helps other sick people. The Doc wants to help them so he pokes and prods me all day."

"With needles?" I grimace in commiseration. This makes Damon laugh a little.

"Yeah," he answers and mutters, "among other things."

I smile sympathetically, "I don't like shots either," I tell him just like my dad would, "but it's worth it," because I believe. I can tell Damon doesn't really agree. "If it's to help other people, it must be worth it," I add but with less conviction

"Sure, kid," he says in a way adults use when they think I'm too young to understand. I furrow my brows in preparation for some standoffish indignation, but Damon isn't looking at me anymore.

He's glancing with nervous eyes at the clock on the far wall before turning back to me. "Look, Elena. You really shouldn't be down here, should you?" His eyes have dimmed, and he seems distracted, but his accusation is an accurate one. It makes me look down at my shoes. "It's been pretty nice—meeting you—but I wouldn't want you to get in trouble. Thanks for the drink, kid. You should get back to your book before your dad notices. I won't say anything." He winks at me, but it's not reassuring. He's trying to get rid of me—fast.

"Wait!" I demand with an indignant pout, "How did you kn—" but I'm interrupted by the loud gurgling of pipes in the wall and Damon's horrified reaction to them. With his face screwed up in terror, he flinches as if someone were about to hit him. He tries to pull his hands up to protect his head but is stopped short by his restraints.

"Damon?" I step towards him, confused and worried. "What's wrong?" I try to ask him. Before he can answer, the sound of water rushing through the pipe sends him jerking with violence against his chains. The water bursts screeching out of the shower head and rains down on him. My face twists in confusion and the rest of me freezes in momentary panic.

How can anyone be so afraid of a sh—

 _Oh._

No. What—

 _Daddy!_

I search the room for my father, because I don't know what to do. He always knows what to do.

Damon is screaming. The smell of burnt roses rolls off him in waves and crashes into me. But the roses aren't burning—Damon is. His skin sizzles where the water hits it and steam rises off his whole body.

His screams are strangled now. He's holding in his pain and looking at me like he's apologizing for being on fire.

 _Daddy, please!_

But he doesn't come.

Part of me realizes that he did this.

 _Why?!_

He's not coming.

No one's coming.

The fear that had been gripping all my muscles releases me. I shoot forward and do something very stupid, considering that there's every indication that the horrible shower will hurt me just as bad. That's not a thought I have time to have before I'm leaping onto his chest to shield the burning man. My feet are hooked around his waist, my arms are wrapped over his head as best as I can manage, and I try to protect my own face by burying it in his neck. Damon is frozen beneath me, no screaming, no thrashing—just still.

Maybe I hurt him.

But I can't move.

I won't.

There's frantic crying coming from someone, wailing, "it's not worth it," over and over again.

It's me.

I'm still panicked and gasping for air when I realize the water has stopped. I'm warm but not burning, not like Damon. The water smells like the time I spilled my mom's bubble bath, but it doesn't hurt me. It only stings a little wherever I come into contact with Damon's still sizzling skin.

 _Damon._

I don't think he's breathing.

When the water stopped, he put his hands on my back to try and comfort me. They're on my shoulders now—as still as the rest of him. I try to say something, but I can't, because I'm still crying. His grip on my shoulders begins to tighten. I'm relieved for a moment before it begins to be painful.

"Ow," I whimper.

Before I can do anything else, I'm being tossed backwards off of Damon's chest and onto the wet tile. I'm on my hands and butt in the puddle of pink-tinged water circling the drain. My chest pounds as I breathe shuddering breaths. I look up at Damon and choke on a scream. I slip and scramble to crawl away from him.

"Get out of here, Elena!" he growls, but it's weak and broken. I'm not as scared as I should be.

His eyes are filled with the fire now, all the way to the blue. The cheeks crawl with dark lines as if something lives beneath the skin. His lips are pulled back over bared fangs. Damon's eyes are the first to go back to normal after he winces in pain. He tries to swallow but chokes on it and coughs until he spits red over the side of the cot. His arms give up on their fight against the chains or against holding him up. He sinks in pain into the damp bed with a fresh hiss.

I begin to cry again.

"My dad did this," I keen, not sure if it's a question or just something I already know to be true. Damon looks at me, but says nothing. I shiver in the cold air, a stark contrast to the steam still rolling off of Damon. I stand up and start towards him, but stop when Damon snarls and recoils away from me. "Let me help you," I shudder. The weapon in his mouth is still displayed, but his other alien features are hidden.

"Your dad's not the bad guy, Elena. I am." He grits his teeth and his face starts to ripple again. His fangs cut into his raw-skinned lower lip. Red trails down his chin, and I can see it now—a monster from a movie Jeremy and I weren't supposed to watch.

Still, I take a hesitant step forward. I can't just leave him under the burning shower. Intense anger lights up Damon's face.

"Get out, Elena! Or I Will. Kill. You."

I believe it.

I believe it more than I believe anything my dad's ever told me.

I believe it, because it sends me running from the burning man in the basement back to the comfort of the lying one.

 _ **XXX**_

Waking up is like breaking the surface of a dark lake. I take deep gasping breaths, one hand clutching at my chest and the other dragging across my face. My eyes are open, but they're straining against darkness to find the wicker of Caroline's bedroom set. Instead, I'm remembering that winter day and the look on my father's face when he realized I'd been in the basement at his practice. I'd only seen it for a second before I was wrapping my arms around his neck, sobbing into his shirt.

"It's not worth it! It's not—" I had wailed, begging him to help the burning man. In the moments that followed he had been confused, consoling, upset and finally stern. In that first second though, the moment between the stairs of the basement and his embrace, my father had been terrified.

I'm not sure why I hadn't remembered it or realized it until now. I remember the weeks that followed where I was chastised for breaking the rules and reassured that Damon-the-monster and the shower that burned him were all a part of my active imagination. Over time, it became an anecdote about my penchant for fantastic fiction. None of that exactly explains my dad's apparent fear or why I am dreaming about it only weeks after the death of both my parents.

"Elena?" Sheriff Forbes' robed silhouette is standing in the softly lit doorway of Caroline's room. I sit up on the roll-away bed that's been my home since I left the hospital an orphan. From here I can see Caroline sleeping soundly. "Elena, honey. You okay?"

I know in this instance she doesn't mean the big picture sense, but it seems to be the only question anyone knows how to ask me anymore.

"I'm fine," I smile, though I'm not sure if she can see it, "Bad dream."

She nods and kneels down beside me, placing her hand in reassurance on my covered knee.

"Are they still as bad?" she whispers. "You were moaning about a demon and calling out for your dad. Do you want me to wake your brother before I go into work?"

"No, no. Let him sleep," I protest. If this has been harder on anyone, it's Jeremy.

"Okay, well it's early, but I'm making coffee if you can't get back to sleep and want to join me."

"Thanks, Liz." That's the best thing I've heard all morning even if it's only been morning for a few hours now.

"And Elena—"

"Hmm?"

"I'm here—you know, if you ever need someone to talk to." She means it, too. They all do—besides maybe Caroline who doesn't really know how to stop talking long enough to listen. It's nice being around Care more than anyone sometimes. She fills the silence without feeling awkward for monopolizing the conversation. The last thing I want to do is talk about it.

I smile, a little wider this time to be on the safe side.

"I'm fine, really. Thank you, though."

I'm gonna have to keep practicing that if I want to get it down before school starts. Especially, considering it may be a bigger lie than ever.

If I were fine, I certainly wouldn't be staring at the apparition of my first imaginary friend during waking hours. He wouldn't be leaning against Caroline's bookshelf in a leather jacket, black jeans and motorcycle boots looking bored and a little confused. Except, here he is in the almost light of day—Damon-the-Vampire.

If I were something resembling fine, I would scream. I wouldn't be trying to avoid eye contact with a figment of my imagination while grabbing the duffel that lies at his feet. I steal into Caroline's bathroom without a noise or a breath until the door is shut behind me and the knob pressing into my back.

This is _not_ what fine looks like.


	2. What the Water Gave Me

**Thanks so much to everyone who gave feedback on the first chapter. Hopefully, this follow up will answer some more questions and create some new ones.**

 _Time it took us  
To where the water was  
That's **what the water gave me**  
And time goes quicker  
Between the two of us  
Oh, my love, don't forsake me  
Take **what the water gave me**_

 _ **-**_ _Florence and the Machine_

 _June 18th, 2009_

 _Dear Diary,_

 _So if I thought ignoring him and hoping he would go away would do anything to deter my hallucinatory stalker, I was disappointingly mistaken. Damon appearances have almost increased to a rate of one a day since seeing him over a week ago in Caroline's bedroom. If this doesn't let up soon, I figure having a log of my hallucinations (at least the ones I know I'm having—scary thought) will probably come in hand for those interested—like my therapist. And my roommate—the one I'll have for the padded cell._

 _Two nights after Caroline's bedroom and coming home with Jenna, he showed up in my bedroom after I had that dream again. He seemed kind of annoyed, but I didn't stick around. I sneaked into bed with Aunt Jenna._

 _Sunday, two nights after that, he showed up again at my parents' wake. The whole town showed up at the house to pay their respects. I got in some good practice at the sober 'thank you's and 'I appreciate that's. I spotted him in the crowd making obscene gestures to guests who of course couldn't see him in plain sight. Carol Lockwood caught me giggling and had to ask if 'I was quite alright'. I slipped out the back and spent the rest of the wake in the cemetery._

 _That night, he appeared again in my bedroom. I was crying over my parents. He sat on the bed next to me with his arms crossed and his boot-clad feet propped up on my duvet. I glared at them for a while, but I checked the next morning, and there were no marks left behind. Because his boots can't be any more real than he is._

 _Monday, I left him humming a Taylor Swift song over and over on my way to meet Bonnie at the Grille. Now, I can't get the damn thing out of my head._

 _Tuesday, he was making funny faces at my teddy bear from his perch on my window seat, the one he pretty much occupied all day. At least he was quiet. I got some reading done._

 _Yesterday, when he appeared at my window seat, I tried to pass the day in the same fashion, but when I pulled out Wuthering Heights again, he took to reading it over my shoulder. He criticized all my favorite bits, and I ended up throwing the book down and stomping out._

 _Today, however; he has been unusually absent._

 _I'm not supposed to miss a hallucination, right?_

 _I'm supposed to be packing. Jenna wants to spend my birthday and the 4th at the lake house. But it won't be the same without them._

 _Nothing is._

 **XXX**

A long car ride with an invisible fifth passenger only I can see—and am trying to ignore—is not what I had in mind when I thought I might be missing my insanity. Trying to talk to your best friend when there's a 5'10'' leather-clad hallucination singing his way through the radio between you is not easy. Nor does it make you look any saner when you lean all the way forward in your seat every time you want to say something to the other corporeal member of the back seat.

I've spent most of this torturous trip staring out the window and blaming it on car sickness. Which isn't a complete untruth. Car rides, in general, have been much less comfortable for me since the accident. Still—I hope Bonnie doesn't think it's her fault. Stupid Damon.

I sneak a glare and a glance at him. He's only humming now, which is an improvement compared to what he was belting out earlier. There's a big ugly signet ring with some sort of crest and a dark blue stone on the middle finger of his left hand. It almost reminds me of the horrendous thing my dad used to wear. I can't tell, though, because he keeps twirling it around.

I catch Jenna looking at me with the rear-view mirror again. I turn back to the window before she can get too concerned at my staring so intently at nothing.

"Ugh. This is taking forever," my unwanted passenger complains. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, still facing the window. He's leaning forward onto his knees. His eyes are narrowed at my aunt in annoyance. "Ever heard of an accelerator, Ginger? Cars have had them since the last time _I_ could drive."

I'm not sure what he means by that, but I blush a little because I know Jenna's been driving five miles under the limit since we left—for my sake. Even though I feel nauseous, I have to agree with Damon at this point.

But Jenna can't hear his complaints. I look at her and then at my brother in the front seat. Jeremy wouldn't respond to Damon even if he were real. He's wearing giant headphones so he can drown out Aunt Jenna's radio station and avoid the conversation none of us are having.

"Elena? Did you hear me?" Jenna's watching me in the mirror again.

"Huh?" I manage.

"Is it too warm in here? You look flushed." Damon falls back against the seat with a huff and his arms crossed over his chest.

"No, it's just a little cramped is all. I'm ready for some fresh air." I try to ignore the reason. Jenna nods and increases the speed a bit.

"We're almost there."

"Thank God!" Damon reminds me that he's not going anywhere fast. I sigh and lay my forehead on the cool glass.

Everyone's so worried. It's exhausting. I'm not sure if I wish they would stop or that they would realize it's so much worse than they think.

 **XXX**

"I came downstairs and they were having coffee," I can hear Caroline tell Bonnie from the hallway outside the room Bonnie and I are sharing for the weekend. Caroline was waiting when we arrived at the lake house. Her family has a lake house, too, not far from us that her dad got in the divorce. She's spending the rest of the summer there with her dad and his boyfriend.

"I mean c'mon," Caroline continues, "she decides to act like a parent because Elena and Jeremy are there? It's not like she was even home half the time before, and now she's coming home early and _cooking_." I jerk my hand back from where I reached for the doorknob.

"Their parents died, Caroline," is Bonnie's soft-spoken response. Hearing that aloud makes my eyes burn. "She was just trying to be there for them until Jenna could get moved back."

I can't bring myself to go in now. If Caroline needs to vent, she should get the chance without my glassy eyes making her feel guilty.

I turn away and disappear down the stairs. Jenna and Jeremy are already outside, Jenna by the lake with a glass of wine waiting for a pizza delivery and Jeremy floating on an inter-tube tied to the dock under a pair of shades. I slip into the only bedroom on the first floor, at the foot of the staircase. Even if someone realizes I'm gone and comes looking, they won't bother me if I'm in here. I forget, though, the rules of social nuance don't apply to the dark, handsome, and imaginary.

Damon is here, in the one place I thought I might have a reprieve. He hasn't noticed yet which seems weird in itself. Isn't he supposed to be some grief-twisted part of my brain? Or maybe I've always been this way. The two explanations I have for the memory of that day in the basement are neither one comforting.

Either way, Damon is uninterested in my struggle. He's leaning over and glaring at framed family photos on my parents' dresser. He looks pissed.

I'm not sure if I should care what his problem is. Thinking about the implications of a person my mind may or may not have invented when I was six having independent thoughts and feelings is giving me a headache. I close my eyes and lean back against the door with a sigh.

I regret opening my eyes again. Not only is Damon still there, he's turned his intense blue gaze on me. The rage and hurt there is startling and freezes me. There's an accusation in his eyes that makes my skin flush with a guilt I can't explain. The moment sense returns to me, I look down.

Damon cries out with low and animalistic ferocity. He lashes out at the photo frames. Though I brace myself for the crash, none comes. I trace the floorboards to his boots—I dare not look up at him. He's kicking at air. For the first time since losing grasp on reality, I feel like I'm the one intruding on something private.

Voices outside on the stairs block means of retreat in that direction. My eyes fall on the closet. The door is open. The plaid jacket my dad used to wear to drink coffee on the deck on cold mornings is hanging on one of the hooks.

I must be responsible for Damon's tantrum in some way. Something in me must be angry. At my parents? At myself? I'm not sure.

I step across the room and bury my face in the fleece of the coat. It smells like woodsmoke, but the comfort I seek is more illusive than a sense memory. I step into the closet where a large rack of my father's casual wardrobe hangs. I wrap my arms around a large cluster of pullovers. The smell of my father more successfully lingers here but the lack of warmth and a satisfying heartbeat has an effect opposite of what I was desperate to feel.

"Aghh!" I cry as I rip the clothes to the floor. My eyes brim with tears. "What is the point, Dad!?" I yell at nothing. "What is the point of surviving if nothing matters anymore? Why survive if all I want to do is turn everything I feel off!?" I punctuate my outburst by slamming my hand against the wall that partitions my father's recessed half of the closet from my mother's. The wood paneling provides little resistance and answers the assault with a hollow echo. My body stills. I wipe tears from my eyes in order to examine the paneling closer.

My curiosity has quelled my anger but not my heartbeat. It feels as if it's been injected with rocket fuel that at any moment might propel the organ out of my throat and free of my body. I dig blunt nails and shaky fingertips in between two panels. Interlocking grooves are the only thing holding them together. With some pressure the two slats come apart. Once I pull the panel away, the rest follow with relative ease.

"Custom skeleton storage," a sarcastic voice drawls, "Must've been quite the selling point for the Doc on this place." I can feel Damon watching me. His bitter sarcasm is both frustrating and welcome. He can't be wrong. If my parents were the honest people I worshiped, I wouldn't be staring at a padlocked door hidden in the walls of their closet.

I strangle the sound crawling out of my throat with my hands. I stumble backwards until I hit the opposite wall and sink against it to the floor. Pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, I rest my left temple there so I can stare at Damon's shins. A tear crawls over the bridge of my nose and falls into the other eye.

Everything I thought I knew is a lie.

The people who could give me the truth are dead.

The only thing that feels real to me is impossible.

Isn't he?

 **XXX**

Today, I turn seventeen, but I feel a lot older than I did this time last year. I haven't been back in my parents' room since our first night here. The secret padlocked door remains unbreached, but the damage to who I thought my parents were is already done.

I want to know what's behind the door. I want to look behind it and discover something silly or harmless—something far less shattering than I'm imagining. Only, I know this is a box I can't unopen, and whatever I find may very well be worse. I may find more questions than answers.

I don't know that I can deal with any more uncertainty in my life right now. Whatever questions the hidden room presents will go unanswered. My parents won't offer any insights, any explanations or defense. My parents are dead.

The existence of the door is proof of some secret—of lies. Lies are far more certain than unanswered questions.

"Here, I won't tell." I look up at Jenna. She's eclipsing the sun and handing me a sweaty bottle of margarita flavored wine cooler. I chuckle and take it from her as she sits on the dock next to me. I've had harder stuff at school sponsored events.

I wrap my swimsuit cover-up around the lid, twist it open and take a drink.

"Thanks," I smile before setting it down next to my thigh.

"Your brother's doing alright with the grill—better than I would be." She takes a drink from a bottle of her own.

"Dad taught him." Jenna nods and looks out at my two best friends. Caroline has taken up residence in Jeremy's inter-tube wearing a pink, ruffled two-piece. Bonnie takes turns swimming between the two of us. Right now, she's torturing Care with little spouts of water she produces with a skilled squeeze of the fist.

"You don't want to get into the water?" Jenna asks over Caroline's unamused squeals and shrieks.

"I am." I lift my feet up to the surface of the lake and wiggle my toes.

"You know what I mean." I do, but I'm about as keen on fully submerging myself in a large body of water as I am on car rides.

"It's okay. This is nice," I indicate by wiggling my toes again. She smiles and wraps an arm around my shoulders. I lean in and rest my head. She gives me a firm squeeze.

I glance at Damon from Jenna's embrace. He's stretched out on his back, staring up at a sky as blue as the eyes that observe it. One of his arms is hooked under his head like a pillow at the corner of the dock. The other hangs off the side, swinging back and forth in the water but never producing any ripples. If anything, his presence has increased since coming to the lake house. I can't help wondering if my subconscious disapproves of my denial.

I sit up to look back at Aunt Jenna.

"Jenna?" I hedge.

"Hmm?" she hums in response.

"I know I'm still a kid and that Mom and Dad probably didn't tell me everything. But if there were something important—I mean they wouldn't have kept something like that from us forever?"

"Yeah, like whatever is inside the Russian nesting closets," Damon scoffs. He's been making similar comments since Friday. What's more distressing is Jenna's reaction. While a level of surprise and confusion are expected, the guilt is not.

"Elena—" she gapes.

"Eeeeee. Ew. Ew. Ew." Bonnie's screeches interrupt whatever it was Jenna couldn't figure out to say. She's jumped onto the dock from the side where Damon's arm hangs off. She flings both hands around in front of her and shudders. "Something touched me—in the water. Ew. Ew."

Damon is staring up at her with something like startled disgust and discomfort on his face. I don't blame him. Bonnie's grossed-out dance is happening in the middle of his abdomen.

"It was probably just a fish, Bon," I smile as I stand and take her hand. "It is a lake." I laugh and pull her toward me.

"I'm gonna go check on Jer," Jenna dismisses herself. I don't look back at her. I can't right now.

"Ugh. Whatever it was gave me the willies." Bonnie shudders again. I reclaim my spot on the dock and pull Bonnie down next to me. I dip my legs back into the water; she just crosses hers Indian style on the edge.

"What was that about? Jenna looked upset." Bonnie takes up the rest of my wine cooler and finishes it off before setting it back down. She's trying not to look too concerned, so I don't feel uncomfortable. She has a lot more tact in these situations than Caroline.

"Jenna's been great. There are just some things I realized I need to talk to my parents about. And now I can't. I shouldn't have said anything to Jenna. It just makes her feel worse." Bonnie takes my hand.

"I know what you mean. I can't really get any answers about my mom from Dad or Grams. The things I need to know they can't tell me." I squeeze her hand.

"I'm sorry I haven't been much fun. I keep wishing this could be sixteen again. In love with Matt again. Happy and carefree again. Oblivious to the possibility that anything could hurt like this." I let out a long sigh. Damon is sitting up on his elbows, watching our exchange.

"Oh, Elena," Bonnie wraps her arms around me, "you'll be happy and in love again, someday, but nobody expects you to be if you're not."

"Maybe not yet. Eventually, though, people are gonna expect me to move on," I glance at Damon over her shoulder," They're gonna expect me to get better."

 **Keep letting me know what you think. Elena's denial won't last forever. A Delena confrontation is coming.**


	3. When You Walk Your Body Through Mine

**Thanks so much to everyone who has read/favorited/followed/reviewed. The feedback is wonderful and reassuring. I love responding to reviews, so to those of you who review as guests, your thoughts are appreciated too! If you log in next time, I can drop you a reply. :) Thanks again to everyone.**

 _Do you think I'm sort of alive?  
Should I set these motives aside?  
Do I feel? Well sort of, but not  
 **When you walk your body through mine**_

 _-Silversun Pickups_

My room at the lake house is a lot emptier without Bonnie and Caroline here. The day after my birthday, they both had to go on separate family vacations of their own. Bonnie's on a month long road trip touring colleges with her dad. I know the only college she's interested in is Whitmore, where her Grams teaches, but she's pretty sure the trip is going to turn into tagging along while her dad ends up working. Caroline's dad is trying to force some sort of bond between her and his boyfriend, Steven's daughter.

In short, I've been left alone in a big room with no distractions. I've taken to sleeping with the lamp by my bed on. Which is why when I wake in a sweat from a dream about dark stairs and a flooded basement, I can see I'm not alone. That and he's usually here when I wake from a dream about him—good or bad. What I don't expect is to find him hovering at my bedside with a hand outstretched towards my face.

I climb backwards up against my headboard with a gasp but manage not to scream. Damon jerks his hand back. His face is stricken. I almost feel bad for startling him. I take my face in my hands and pull my hair back. The sweat keeps it from falling back in my eyes. Damon crosses his arms and walks to the foot of my bed. He's pissed again. He seems to toggle between that and boredom. My subconscious isn't very creative. Except for whatever that was just before he realized I was awake. Affection? I pull my knees to my chest and fold my arms over them. I bury my head in the cave I've created.

"Demon with her face," Damon grumbles. I don't look up. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for the girl that killed me? Huh? Is that it? She lost her Mommy, just like you, Damon." His volume increases as he continues, "Is my death supposed to mean something because you got to live? I should've ripped your throat out just to see the look on his face. You can't even face the truth, can you?"

I'm sobbing into the cavern, dripping hot tears onto my bare thighs.

"Ah, geez. Quit crying and just open the damn door, Elena."

The way he whispers my name like a prayer to take away my pain might have something to do with me standing in my parents' closet again. This time I brought a hatchet. I had to wait almost twenty hours, until Jeremy and Jenna decided to shoot roman candles off the dock. I stole Dad's hatchet from the shed after I made an excuse about having a headache.

That's how I find myself clutching a hatchet to my chest, staring at Pandora's closet.

"You gonna use that thing or did you just bring it to cuddle?" Damon's smart ass comment bubbles in my chest until it bursts out as a wail.

"Aghh!"

Guttural cries continue as they accompany blows to the wood around the hasp that secures the door.

"Hey, pay attention to where you swing that thing," Damon complains. I pull back and breathe. A few of the blows landed at a distance too far from the lock to accomplish much, but it felt good. I wedge the hatchet in its own destruction and leverage the door until it cracks and swings open. Pride flashes across Damon's face before he looks in at the dark room, and it falls away.

I drop the hatchet with a thud and step forward. I grasp at the darkness after finding no switch and find a string. An electric click illuminates any chance of turning back. The faint pop of fireworks continues outside.

Damon leans in the doorway with his arms crossed while I turn in circles in the small room. I'm not sure what I was expecting to find. Some sort of antique weapons cache wasn't on the radar of possibilities. My parents were interested in town history, especially my mom, but I realize a lot of the weapons have modern handles and mechanisms.

The only commonality between all of them seems to be wood. Mounted at the center is a monster of a crossbow and wooden bolts to load it with. I trace my fingers along the wooden blade of a dagger. There's a bow with wood-tipped arrows and some kind of flail with wooden spikes. Mostly, there are a lot of various wooden dowels and spindles sharpened to a point.

On the left, some industrial shelves house the only things out of place in a room where the theme seems to be 'weapons to use against Magneto'. A bunch of leather-bound journals take up three of the four shelves. I grab one off the top and unwind the leather tie. It looks old, like it was bound by hand. This seems more in line with the contents of our attic at home. Why they're locked up here, I have no idea.

The inside cover indicates Johnathan Gilbert of 1865 as the author. Maybe all of these journals, written by one of our civil war era ancestors, have some monetary value. Except that my mom believed that history belongs to everyone. She would have donated them to a museum or historical library before locking them away. I can't make sense of any of this.

I flip through the pages of the journal before something catches my eye. ' _I knew I was about to die_ ,' the elegant script asserts, ' _You can not run from a vampire_.'

I drop the journal with a sharp gasp as if it's on fire. The small excerpt casts everything else in the closet in a new light.

It's a horrifying light. While another girl might see strange fiction, might imagine her parents as participants in some embarrassing role-playing fetish, I can't. I have the worst kind of evidence to the contrary—my own memory. I swing around to look at Damon with wide eyes.

Damon.

I sink to my knees in front of him.

A vampire.

I don't believe. People grow old and die. That's the world we live in, but I can't deny what's right in front of me anymore.

I can't pretend a reminder of the proof hasn't been haunting me.

"Elena?" There's concern in his voice as he kneels down beside me. I stare blankly at his shoulder. He looks with confusion at the overturned journal. Silent tears streak unchecked down my face. My eyes sting from being open too long, but I can't blink.

I start to remember his words from last night—his frustrated declaration that I couldn't face the truth. I thought he meant this room, facing what was behind this door, but it was a truth I'd already known.

The truth is the burning man in the basement had been real. The truth is Damon was a vampire. Vampires are real. The truth is Damon had not been there of his own free will, and my father had not been his doctor. Damon might have been a monster, but my father was a monster of a different kind. The truth is—

"He killed you because of me."

I'm staring up into his eyes. He freezes and his lips part. It's the first time I've spoken to him, admitted out loud that he was there.

A loud series of bangs sound in succession and make me jump. I break eye contact. It's the big finale Jeremy spent all of his savings on at the fireworks stand today. They'll be back inside soon. I scramble to grab up the journal and a few more from the shelves.

"Elena?" I can't look at him.

I clutch the journals to my chest and reach to click off the light. I move towards the door, but he steps in front of me silhouetted in the light from the proper closet.

"Elena." I stop in front of him. My body believes that he is an obstacle, even if I know he's not. His eyes shine and catch my own. "Elena, can you see me?" he whispers.

I look down at his chest. I wrench my eyes shut and step through him.

 **XXX**

The revelations of the lake house have weighed on me all summer. It doesn't help that pretending Damon doesn't exist has gotten a lot harder. I've given up writing in my journal. My 'Damon Log' is hardly necessary anymore. The times he's not around would be easier to track. With him always around, writing seems impossible. Without writing or anyone to talk to, I'm near to erupting. Jeremy and Jenna have been eyeing me as if I might. Not good, considering school starts again in a week, and I'm supposed to be okay by now.

The weeks that followed our return from the lake house, I poured over the three Johnathan Gilbert journals I'd retrieved from the closet. Most of it I had to read more than twice and not just because of the antiquated English and frenzied handwriting. I kept getting distracted by the look on Damon's face as he scrutinized me. After his breathy plea in my parents' closet went unanswered, he has repeated it on more than one occasion. For days, every time I would slip up and look at him too long he would freeze. His whole body would still; his eyes would narrow under his dark brow.

"Elena?" he would exhale, always a question. I would bury my eyes back in my ancestor's personal musings. After a while, the questions ceased but not his expression. The flicker of hope, the desperation, and the self-doubt—every time he would resign himself to seeing things only because he was desperate to do so. He seems to question his sanity as often as I do. It's a little too human, too authentic for someone I'm not convinced exists outside my own mind.

The only place Damon gives me any reprieve is at the cemetery which is why I'm here now. Damon's here somewhere too, but like the last few times I've come here, he's wandered off. He'll show up again when I'm ready to head home, with his hands in his pockets and an uncomfortable look on his face. Though it's a momentary relief, his void fills with everything else. I should've brought my journal.

I lean my elbows into my thighs and prop my chin up on my palms. The grass in front of my parents' headstone is still a little thinner than everywhere else.

"What am I supposed to do with all of this, Mom?" I still don't know how to talk to my dad yet, no matter how alive. "I mean vampires exist, and witches, and magic rings. And Damon? Dad did horrible things to him. Maybe he wasn't human, maybe he was a monster that would've killed us all, but he felt pain—he saved me." Tears are welling in my eyes again.

"God, I'm so tired of crying!" The thin grass is clenched in my fists. I stand in frustration, and the grass comes up with me. I throw it at the headstone and stomp off. I make a few strides towards the path by the creek and slow.

Cemeteries aren't as quiet as some would imagine—not from my experience. There are always chattering squirrels and birdsong to fill the silence.

Except they've all gone. The cemetery is still. It makes my heartbeat thunder to the point of discomfort as I take a step to look around. A shadow moves behind a stone angel, and I gasp. My feet start to move before I can look where I'm going. The ground gives way to an incline by the creek bank. I stumble down it to where the ground is level, but the toe of my sneaker catches an embedded rock and sends my knee into the bark of a tree.

I hiss and grab the tree for support. Even with my jeans as a buffer, it stings pretty bad. I feel silly. I let some shadows scare me. At least Damon isn't here to witness my humiliation. I pull myself all the way up and prop the treads of my lo-top on the trunk of the tree so I can roll my jeans up.

A few rolls later, I hiss again at the sight of blood. My jeans have streaked it all over my knee, so it looks worse than it is. The skin is only broken a little.

"Elena!" It's not a question. My head jerks up before I can quell the reflex. Damon's face is panicked. He's staring at my bloodied knee, but there's none of the strained desire from when I was a girl, only fear.

"Damon what—" His eyes widen as they reach mine. Damon's eyes linger on mine before they flit to my right. He's looking at something over my shoulder. The feeling that hurled me into the tree returns. Damon grips both my shoulders. I'm looking at his hands but I can't feel them.

"Elena, if you can hear me, Run!"

I listen.

I don't stop running until I round the corner on my block. Nothing is chasing me—that I can see. Johnathan Gilbert's assertion that you can't run from a vampire urges me onto the porch and through the door. I'm pulling in quick breaths. Once the adrenaline wears off, my knee begins to burn again. I wince and lean back against the door.

A moment later, someone barrels down the stairs. I open my eyes; Jeremy jumps the last two steps into the entryway with his sketchbook under his arm. He's smiling, at least until he cocks an eyebrow at me.

"You okay, Elena? You're bleeding." I wipe some sweat from my forehead and look down at my knee. It does look pretty gruesome.

"Yeah, it's just a scratch. I went for a run."

"In jeans?"

"Yeah," I try and laugh, "That was part of the problem. Where are you headed?"

"I'm meeting Sarah at the Grille."

"Salvatore?" I try not to sound too interested. It's not the first time this summer that I've heard that name. I never thought my brother would move on before me, but I'm glad he has a friend. I'm not much of a support for him right now.

"Yeah." Sarah hasn't expanded his vocabulary by much.

I want to keep all of this craziness out of his life. I'm trying, but the price of secrets about vampires and our parents is some distance between us. It makes me wonder how much distance our parents put between us and them for our own good—but they had each other. I hate being alone in all of this.

But I don't have to be.

That's a dangerous thought, because it makes me want to blurt all of it out right here. Except, the only hope I have of exonerating my parents' memory is if they had a good reason for keeping us in the dark. The only thing worth that is our safety, which means knowing this secret is a danger I can't risk for Jeremy.

The other option is that my parents were just shitty people who lied to protect themselves.

"Elena?"

"Hmm?"

"You better clean that up. It's gross." Jeremy scrunches his face up. I smile and cross to the stairs.

"See you later, Jer. Have fun."

"Yeah. See ya," he calls as he shuts the door behind him, and I begin a painful climb up the stairs.

Damon's there when I reach my room. He's standing facing the window seat with his forearm pressed to the wall above the alcove. He swings around at the sound of the door clicking shut behind me. His expression halts me.

"You could see me," he growls. His panic and concern from the cemetery are gone. "You've been able to see me—hear me all this time," he advances on me with inhuman speed. I step backwards until my heels catch the baseboard on the wall next to the door. "All these years!"

"Wait. What?!" I breathe. His arm is pressed through my throat all the way to the wall. It doesn't hold me there—it can't, but I'm frozen anyway.

"You killed me. You're the reason I'm dead, and then you watched me hang around for ten years and never said a word." Red leaks in around his eyes and the skin on his cheeks squirms. It isn't real, but just as menacing as I remember.

"No," I choke out as if there really were a forearm lodged in my throat.

"I avoided you—I did. I was afraid I was going crazy, but it's only been a few months. I swear. The first time I saw you was in my friend, Caroline's bedroom."

He pulls back. The red leeches out of his eyes but not the anger. He doesn't quite believe me. I understand. I couldn't bring myself to face the reality of him either.

I step away from him to my bookshelf and pull my journal out from behind the ceramic mermaid. He's facing me when I twist back around. I page through to the weeks after my parents' deaths and thrust the open volume in front of him.

"Look," I plead. He glares at me before looking down. He scans it, and I flip it to June 18th, to the log of times I'd seen him. I forget, until his eyes linger there, the complaints I'd logged about his absence. I blush and close the journal.

His eyes are still fierce when he meets mine again.

"What kind of hell is this?" he groans. I wince and look at my feet.

"I'm sorry." The blood on my knee is caked and brown. "What was that? In the cemetery?" It's the beginning of a flood of questions I've been too afraid to ask, but when I look up for an answer the room is empty.

Damon is gone.

 **This is the rest of what I have written so far and am a bit stuck right before what would be the first episode of the show, but I have some plans for the future. If you have any thoughts or questions, let me know. I'd love to hear any feedback on how you think the AU would be different without Damon around for the last 50 years. In the meantime I'm working on an update. Keep reading!**


	4. Shadows of My Yesterday

**Wow! I just wanted to say that I've been blown away by the response to the first three chapters of this story. Thanks so much to everyone who has given me feedback. I apologize for the wait on this update. This is the first chapter that starts to overlap things that happened on the show, so it took me some time to work out where I wanted to go with the story and how to make it uniquely mine.**

 **My goal with this is not to rewrite or novelize scenes and episodes from the show. Similar things and references to events on the show may happen, but my aim is to tell a truly alternate story. If I use any dialogue or situations from TVD its because I'm trying to show them in a completely different context now that the characters have different motivations and journeys. If you catch me writing scenes that read like novelizations of the show, please let me know.**

 **Happy Reading!**

 _I said you got me where you want me again  
And I can't turn away  
I'm hangin' by a thread and I'm feelin' like a fool  
I'm stuck here in between  
The **shadows of my yesterday**  
I want to get away  
I need to get away  
_

 _-Cage the Elephant_

September 7th, 2009

Dear Diary,

Still no Damon.

I'm not exactly sure when the grace period passes before I can consider him a symptom—a grief-dream I've finally woken from.

If he really were a guide, some manifestation of my subconscious sent to lead me to accept my parents' death and their secrets, shouldn't there be more closure. Shouldn't something be resolved?

No.

I'm not crazy.

Not even temporarily. The only thing I have learned to accept is that the supernatural exists. Which makes Damon more Patrick Swayze than A Beautiful Mind.

So, where is he? 

Are there still vampires in Mystic Falls?

Witches?

Was there a vampire watching me in the cemetery last week? Other than the dead undead one I wish hadn't stopped following me.

Why am I the only one who can see Damon? What does that make me?

All of these questions would be a lot easier to ask him if he were still around.

This is gonna make Junior year a lot more complicated. Today is gonna be hell, and I don't know how to be ready for this. I had a plan, and it hasn't changed much. I will smile. It will be believable. If a smile can convince them that I'm fine, that I'm much better, that time heals everything, then it shouldn't be that hard to shove 'No, I'm not looking for the ghost of a vampire my dad tortured and killed instead of listening to what you're saying' in there somewhere.

If I can convince them of all of that, then maybe I can convince myself that not seeing Damon is a good thing. Maybe he's moved past whatever was keeping him here.

 **XXX**

I close my journal over top my pen and stuff it in the messenger bag I packed for school last night. I glance over at the window seat. It's where I usually write, but I've left it vacant for the last week.

No reason.

I catch the time from the clock on my bedside table and grimace. I'm already later than I should be. This is not going to help the success rate of my 'much better, thank you's. Damn. Bonnie's probably waiting for me. If I'd been writing in my window seat like normal, I would've seen her.

I stop in front of my vanity to check myself. I practice my smile a few times. Still sad—but optimistic. The girl in the mirror is fresh-faced with wide eyes. Her top is a feminine but modest v-neck blouse in a bold red-orange and with a low neckline picked in specific to help distract from any less-than-fine facial expressions. A white, lace camisole keeps it from violating dress code. Distraction is her friend; attention is not.

I tuck some of her long, flat-ironed hair behind her ears and smile again. She smiles back.

"I'm fine," she says, "much better."

She fades out of focus. My family stares back at me in her place from photos tacked to the frame of the mirror. There's a snapshot from a family game night long passed. It was my mom's favorite picture of the four of us, and a larger copy sits in a frame, on my parents' dresser, at the lakehouse.

A knock brings me back to the sense of urgency I _should_ have. Right. I'm late.

"Elena?" Bonnie smiles from the crack in the doorway she made after not receiving an answer. I sling my bag over my shoulder and grab up my phone.

"Hey, Bon," I apologize with a smile. "I know. I'm late. Jer used all the hot water again. And I think he stole my good eyeliner. I had to borrow Jenna's." Bonnie snickers with me.

"No biggie," her smile is still genuine, but her eyes are puffy, and she looks tired. "I overslept my alarm." She hands me one of our over-sized mugs full of black coffee.

"Thanks," I moan. I take a few large swallows—it's not hot anymore—and set the mug down on my dresser half empty. I wrap my hand around the strap of my bag.

"You ready?" Bonnie asks. She graciously pretends it's not a loaded question.

"Yep," I reply with an upbeat rise in my voice, and I follow her down to her Prius parked on the street after grabbing my jacket from the entryway.

Bonnie calls her car the Guilt Guzzler, because her dad bought it for her sixteenth as what she considers a shiny distraction from the fact that he's always out of town. A bribe she accepted with glee. It's a cute, little, blue hybrid—fuel efficient, good for the environment, compact. It suits her.

No one has questioned our plan to carpool. I haven't driven much this summer despite the fact that I now own two cars—my Escape and the vintage super sport covered and tucked away in the garage. Neither of them feel right anymore. The one time I got behind the wheel of my SUV since the accident it felt like I was piloting a small yacht. The Camaro would be the antithesis of my plan to avoid unnecessary attention—the memories attached wouldn't be helpful either.

No. This is the better option for now.

I slide into the front passenger seat with my bag and pull the door closed behind me. Bonnie's seatbelt clicks a moment after I secure mine. She smiles at me as she twists the key in the ignition.

"I ran into Jenna on her way to campus. She said Jeremy caught the bus." She expects some measure of surprise from me. We both know my brother's unpleasant history with Pamela the bus driver. I just smile and nod as she pulls out onto our street and heads in the direction of the town square.

"The first stop on our route is that old boarding house out by the Falls. The Salvatores live there," I clarify for her.

"Ohhhh," she draws out the word like it's scandalous gossip. "Is he still hanging out with morbid-camera-girl?"

"Sarah," I correct.

"Mmmm," she acknowledges and then launches into complaints about her summer road trip.

I look out at Main Street and the passing staples of my childhood—the church, the hardware store, my dad's favorite restaurant. It's all so innocuous and perfect, not the sort of place you'd expect to find vampires locked in basements. Before my parents died, I thought nothing bad ever happened here.

"—And then I lost my virginity to the entire football team." I jump when Bonnie shouts my name.

"I'm sorry. I spaced again. What were you saying about the football team?" She glances back and forth between me and the road.

"Oh, you know . . ." She trails off in a coy prompt to get me to think about it.

"Right—" I concentrate on remembering what I was listening to only peripherally. "—something about weird dreams?" 

"Ding. Ding." She celebrates my success instead of making me feel bad. "Besides the football team, which I'm pretty sure was just a normal weird dream, I've been having these other strange dreams—Grams says I'm psychic . . ." There's something nervous underneath her joking tone. It's unlike her. I see how tired she looks again, and an uncomfortable pang pulls at my stomach. Bonnie's been her loving, goofy self, but I've been so focused on maintaining my good face that I haven't been as good a friend as she's been to me.

"Bon—" I hedge as we cross Laurel Avenue, but I'm interrupted by my friend's startled screech. The car lurches, and the world spins around us. I brace myself on the dash and wrench my eyes shut. My mother shouting my father's name rings in my ears.

Oh God.

I can hear water rushing in around me. My eyes snap open, but everything is dry. We're stopped. It was only the sound of my own blood coursing underneath my skin. I take a deep breath and listen to Bonnie's profuse and persistent apologies instead. We spun out maybe thirty feet into two vacant parking spots in front of my father's medical practice.

When I look at Bonnie her eyes are wide and panicked. "Did you see that, Elena? I'm so sorry. I swear there was this bird—oh man, I think it was a crow—Did you see a crow? It flew right at the car. No. I mean it was probably just a pigeon or something. I'm so sorry, Elena." She seems more freaked out than I am.

I didn't see anything, but I don't dare say as much. I manage a weak smile.

"I don't think we have pigeons in Mystic Falls, Bon, but a crow maybe," I chuckle. Bonnie nods, crestfallen. That was the wrong thing to say, I guess. I reach out and grip her shoulder. "Hey," I smile, the first one in a while that hasn't felt forced. "You're psychic now, so you already know this, but we are letting the last year go. We are gonna find you a man, Fun Elena is going to make a reappearance, and this year is going to be awesome, Bonnie Hopkins!" Bonnie lights up at my enthusiasm. Even my own chest warms at the thought.

I look back at my father's building as Bonnie pulls back into traffic. I can let this go. I can rebuild my life. Things can be good again.

 **XXX**

After last period, I meet Caroline and Bonnie at the south bleachers of the football field like I have a vague memory of promising to do at lunch. They're both toting their red and black Mystic Falls High standard issue pom poms.

Right. Cheerleading.

It's the beginning of tryouts for the freshman squad. Now that we're on the varsity squad, we're supposed to take pleasure in watching the newbies fumble through shoulder sits and basket tosses. Just like we did the first day of tenth grade after we became senior members of the junior varsity.

Despite everything feeling different, not much has changed at Mystic Falls High School. All the classes are still only mildly interesting and hardly challenging. Mr. Tanner still thinks that the Civil War should comprise eighty percent of the history curriculum. The quarterback of the football team is still in love with me even if I did break his heart, and Caroline still has her ear pressed to the door of the MFHS rumor mill. The only difference that's even remarkable is—

"—lives with his uncle and his cousin at the old Salvatore boarding house. You know who I'm talking about? The sophomore who takes all those pictures without permission even though she's not on yearbook," I can hear Caroline tell Bonnie as I climb to their riser. There's a new addition to the class of 2011. The first one I know of since Savannah Davis decided to move from New York to live with her dad in the fourth grade.

Needless to say, Caroline is all over it. It's nice to have something to draw attention from my half-hearted participation in their conversations.

"Elena!" Caroline's spotted me. Bonnie turns to smile at me as I straddle the bench a step down from theirs. "You have three classes with him, right? What do you think, totally more my type."

"I do?" I shrug. Definitely not the right answer, "I don't know, Care. You probably know more about him than I do." Caroline beams and Bonnie groans.

"Oh, c'mon. Just because you know his birthday and sosh doesn't mean you get dibs," Bonnie argues. She rolls her eyes so only I can see.

"He's a Gemini and his favorite color is _blue_ ," Caroline emphasizes the color as she leans over and flares her big, sparkly blue eyes. I tilt my head with a skeptical eyebrow raise and tuck the hair that falls forward behind my ear. Bonnie giggles. "Laugh all you want," Caroline postures. "I'll have him in coordinating colors by homecoming."

There's a gaggle of cheerleaders stretching on the track down below us. A few other students are scattered among the bleachers, devoted football girlfriends and underclassmen without cars. The football team is running drills on the field. Tyler Lockwood is messing around and punts a ball at the goal post. Tanner—half history teacher, half football coach, not especially skilled at either—blows his obnoxious whistle at Tyler and yells at him to get back to drills. By the time he retrieves the ball and is back on the field, the murder of crows that I now realize were his target, have reclaimed their perch on the horizontal yellow bar.

Leaning against its perpendicular support is a black leather jacket and the man with dark hair wearing it.

"See, Elena. I told you. Mystic Falls has some kind of infestation." Bonnie's followed the direction of my gaze but she can only see the goal's feathered occupants.

The leather-winged one staring up at us is a ghost only I can see. He isn't a grief-dream; he didn't move on. My breath catches in my throat.

Damn.

There goes rebuilding my life—the one I had before, anyway.

"Elena?" I've stood without realizing it. "Where're you going?" Caroline demands, indignant.

I sigh and smile back at my friends.

"I'm sorry, guys. I'm just really not feeling it right now."

"But it's tradition!" Caroline protests.

"It's only been once since we were freshman, Care." I should know better than to argue.

"C'mon, Elena," Bonnie urges with a hesitant smile. There's unease in her eyes that makes me frown with guilt. I did promise her Fun Elena, but it'll just have to wait for another day.

The goal post is birdless again; they line the roof of the commentator booth now. Damon is turning a corner at the bottom of the bleachers. I jump down a few risers.

"You guys have fun," I call back at the friends I hope I still have after this day. "I'll catch you at the Grille later," I add as a promise to them and also to myself. Things can be good again—handsome haunting or no.

"Wait," Caroline stands with her poms rustling in her fists. "You can't just—" Bonnie pulls her back down with a gentle tug on her forearm.

"Caroline, chill!" I hear Bonnie stage-whisper as I jump the last three benches between me and the front railing.

I reach the concession building out of breath. Between chasing invisible people and running from them, I can tell Caroline's not going to be any happier with me come practice this week. I skipped cheer camp and spent the summer _not_ swimming. Uggh. I'm out of shape.

I choke up on my bag and round the corner on the exit I saw Damon take.

Why didn't he wait for me?

Why did he? Why take the scenic route when he can just poof wherever he wants whenever he wants? He never bothered with stairs or doors when he was haunting my window seat.

Where is it he has to be that he's making me pursue him in a game of hard to get? He's dead. Twice. That's not a game I'm going to win.

And BAM!

I'm on my ass in front of the men's room. Ouch.

"Oh, man," I wince and look up at the immovable object that landed me here. Whoever he is, he's not the very-opposite-of-solid ghost I was looking to not crash into.

"Elena? Are you okay?" He's almost as easy on the eyes, though.

"You know my name?" I ask, skeptical of the stranger whose outstretched hand I use to yank myself off the ground. He frowns in a wounded sort of way that wouldn't be so effective in garnering my sympathy if he weren't so damn pretty. "Sorry." I offer him a smile. "We have history together, don't we?" I've finally placed his face. Too bad his name doesn't follow before I continue with, "You must be . . . Um—"

"Stefan," he supplies. "And English and French." His white teeth and moss colored eyes sparkle at me as he flashes what I'm sure is a perfect and charming smile.

"Huh?" I manage. Something else shiny has caught my attention.

"We have English and French together, too," he clarifies. He gives the big signet ring on the ring finger of his right hand a nervous spin. It has a silver band and a blue stone, and I've seen it before.

"Nice ring," I smile and meet his eyes. He looks relieved and acceptance hungry.

Shit. I'm being rude.

"Obnoxious, isn't it? It's kind of a family heirloom." He twists it around and shoves his hand in his pocket.

"Salvatore, right?" I grasp at Caroline's gossip. Why haven't I been paying more attention all day? "Like the founding family? I thought Sarah and her dad were the last ones left."

"Almost," Is all he replies with his brow furrowed. I look down at my shoes, more than a little ashamed. When I look up again, he's wearing a pair of sunglasses.

I try a genuine smile this time. My benefit of the doubt didn't really survive what was in my parents' closet, but whoever Stefan Salvatore is, his pain is real. And I poked it with a stick.

"Sorry about that. I have foot in mouth disease. I know how painful losing family can be." I extend a hand. "It was nice to meet you, Stefan. If you're looking for something I could show you the way. I'd be happy to." My hand hangs lonely between us.

"No," is his short and curt reply. He backs away, "I mean—I have to go."

And he's gone.

 _What the hell?_

This day.

 **So I'm gonna duck and hide while all of those of you who've been asking for more Delena yell frustrated at your screens. Sorry. We will get there, but right now Damon is a little peeved at Elena and might also be doing some scheming. I'm pretty determined to keep this in Elena's perspective so we only catch glimpses of him for now. I'll admit I'm of the slow-burn camp, so while I won't hide that Delena is the destination, there may be some detours to getting there.**

 **Thanks so much for reading! Please continue (or start) to tell me what you think.**

 **I have some written ahead because I wanted to make sure it was going in the direction I wanted before updating so look for another update in about a week.**

 **Thanks!**


	5. Backup Makeshift Life in Waiting

_Pain on pain on play, repeating  
With the **backup makeshift life in waiting**._

 _Everybody says that time heals everything._

 _-Imogene Heap_

The Mystic Grille is warm and alive even on a Monday evening. It's Mystic Falls' one and only all ages watering hole. There's almost always some combination of letterman's jackets and sensible pantsuits among its patrons by day's end. It's another testament to how little anything changes around here.

I step down into a recessed level of seating and seek out my friends. I spot Caroline first. She's on the steps that lead to the pool tables giving the straw of her soft drink a coy twirl and laughing at everything Tyler Lockwood says. I happen to know that Ty thinks Caroline is annoying on her best days.

Care catches me watching. I smile and lift a hand to wave. She doesn't return it or call me over, just gestures with a look at another part of the Grille. I'm not sure if I'm getting the cold shoulder for skipping out earlier or if she just doesn't want me to interrupt them. With Care it could go either way. It's probably both.

I follow the direction Care gave me and find Bonnie and Matt talking over a plate of fries. Even though we've all been friends almost forever, I can tell they've gotten closer. They spent the last half of the summer lifeguarding together—a summer I would've spent at the pool while Matt sneaked peaks at me from the lifeguard stand if I hadn't broken up with him. If my parents hadn't died.

I'm not sure Caroline's agenda. I'm pretty sure her only design is for _something_ to happen and for her to be there to witness it so she can get a scoop.

Bonnie discovers me first and smiles. Matt swings around and stands. He meets me on my way to their table. I was kinda hoping to have Bon here as a buffer on this one. We're stopped in front of the kitchen.

"Hey," I manage after an extended awkward silence.

"Hey."

Things to say. Things to say.

 _Something_ to say. C'mon.

Brain?

Mouth?

Nope. Nothing. As much as I care about Matt, deciding to break up with him was more a relief than anything—a relief eclipsed by a massive tragedy that made it all matter a lot less.

I can't say that.

"Look, Elena, I know you said you needed space, and I want to give you that—"

"Matt—" I try and stop him, but that would require words to say. I've still got nothing.

"I just want you to know that I'll be here whenever you need. We'll always be friends, but I still think we can be more. I still believe in _us_." The way his hope wraps around the word 'us' makes it sound like a foregone conclusion. His big blue eyes are warm and soft and full of that hope, but while he's hoping for the future, I'm looking for a different pair of blue.

My mother's voice is still in the back of my head. _Set him free, Elena._

'We'll always be friends, Matt, but I'm just not that girl anymore. We should move on.'

That's what I should say. I'm about to. Then the kitchen swings open and Vicki Donovan is glaring at me from behind a tray full of potato skins and waffle fries.

I catch her eyes before turning back to her little brother with a reserved smile.

"Thanks, Matt," falls out of my mouth, and I fall into a familiar embrace.

Damn. I'd forgotten how safe this feels. Except that we part, exchange smiles, and the bottom of my stomach drops out.

I'm a petty, shitty person.

Vicki just gets under my skin. She's always thought I would break Matt's heart, that I thought I was better than him and that I only thought of him as a charity case. It's the furthest thing from the truth, but now that I've fulfilled the heart-breaking portion, I'll never be able to change her mind about the rest. I don't know why I care so much.

If someone broke my brother's heart, it'd hardly make a difference if she meant to or not.

Matt pulls out a chair for me at a table occupied by Tyler and Caroline. I try not to cringe at the very boyfriend-like habit and remain standing.

"Where's Bonnie?"

"She had another one of her _trance_ thingies," Caroline patronizes and gestures to the bar. "Honestly, are we really supposed to believe—" Matt cuts her off with a look.

"What?" she demands in response to being chastised.

My eyes are on Bonnie at the bar as I shrug out of my jacket and hang it with my purse on the back of a chair. She's sitting alone at the end of the bar with her left hand wrapped around what I hope is club soda. She's staring, eyes blank, at nothing and fiddling with something at the end of a chain that disappears into her blouse.

"I'll be back," I offer to no on in particular and push my chair in. I ignore Caroline's pointed huff and weave my way over to the bar.

"Ice water, please," I tell the bartender and slide onto the stool next to Bonnie. Her hand drops from the front of her shirt.

"Hey, Elena," she smiles. Her heart's not in it. I scooch my stool closer to hers and snake my arm around her waist. She looks up at me from her drink, lets out a breath and rests her head on my shoulder. The graduated upperclassman tending bar busies himself with the fair amount of other customers between us and whoever is playing darts at the other end of the bar.

"What's up, Bon?" I ask, concerned when she doesn't say anything else. She lifts her head up.

With an eye roll and half a smile she tells me, "I know how crazy things have been for you. I don't want to add my crazy to the pile." I'd worried as much. I squeeze her small frame to my side and then release her.

"Someone else's crazy would be refreshing at this point," I urge. "But, honestly, Bonnie, no matter what's happening in my life, if you need me, I'm always here. You should know that." I add a reassuring smile to my mock reprimand.

My words seem to come as a relief. She doesn't hesitate before, "I think I'm being haunted," tumbles from her.

My mouth forms a surprised 'Oh' but all that comes out is a puff of breath.

"I know it sounds crazy," Bonnie continues at the look on my face. "I mean I never believed the things my Grams said. You know, cause she was always sauced when she said them. But I found this necklace, and I guess it belonged to my bunch-of-greats grandmother. Grams said it found me, and it would protect me, but since I started wearing it I have these strange dreams, and this last week—it feels like someone is always watching me," she gasps for a breath in the middle of her tirade and gives a creeped-out shiver. I glance at the patrons closest to us—a retired regular and a group of PRNs in scrubs celebrating the end of a weekend shift at the hospital—but none of them seems too interested in our conversation.

"—And the crows," Bonnie continues. The skilled dart player sinks another bullseye. "They keep showing up everywhere. But at least you can see them, too. I thought I was imagining—Elena?" Bonnie's caught the look on my face. My face is frozen, unblinking, not because she's shocked me with her revelations, but because moments after a dart finds its target at the board, I watch it disappear. I can see the familiar dark hair of the player now.

"Oh, great," Bonnie's voice is dejected. "You think I'm crazy." I turn back to her and grip her hand in mine.

"You're not crazy, Bonnie," I say without breaking eye contact. "But you're not the one being haunted, I am." A weight on my chest lifts enough for giddy adrenaline to flood my system.

"What?"

"We'll talk later, I promise, but right now I have to do something." Her lips are parted as she nods. I squeeze her hand and jump off my stool. "You're not any crazier than I am. I promise I'll explain," I smile and she laughs. The darts have stopped flying. I hug her. "Love ya, Bon."

A pair of motorcycle boots head towards the back of the restaurant. I follow but in the middle of my 'excuse me's and apologies they turn the corner.

"Sorry," I mutter to an older woman I almost bowled over. I grab the corner of the wall to swing myself after him. I make it to the corridor with the bathrooms, but he's gone. Again. Dammit!

I sigh. It turns into a gasp as someone takes my arm and wrenches me into the ladies' room. A waitress.

"Vicki?" I huff. She has me pressed up against the sinks before I can say much else.

"Stay away from my brother," she hisses. "You cut him loose, so _cut him loose_." She's not wrong, but her threat is accompanied by more violence than I would like. I wrestle my wrist out of her grasp and meet her glare with my own.

"Matt and I are friends; we'll always be close. You need to learn to deal with it."

"Whatever," she rolls her eyes. "You've never cared about him. You strung him along until you decided you were done with him, and now you're dragging him around on a leash in case you decide to be interested again. He doesn't mean anything to you. He's my brother. You need to stop with this sympathy bullshit, and let him get over you. No one cares if your perfect parents are dead anymore." My teeth clench and heat coils in my gut.

"You mean the brother whose best friend you're sleeping with. Sounds like great sister material to me."

"Tyler and I are none of your business, you uppity bitch," she spits and starts to pin me in again. The tight space makes me dizzy and the whole thing has reignited my anger—anger at my parents and Damon and all the Vicki's and Stefan's who keep getting between me and the answers he has to all of my questions.

I curl my hands into fists and growl, "Back off, Vicki!" with a surprising amount of menace. She leans into my face, and I wince.

"You don't have it in you, cheerleader," she laughs. The coil in my gut springs, and I shove her off of me with a shriek. She stumbles back into the wall that partitions the stalls from the sinks. After a moment of shock crosses her face, she comes back at me with the swing of an arm.

"You little—" I don't hear whatever she calls me, punctuated as it is by the slap of her open hand making contact with the left side of my face.

God. OW!

I grab my stinging face and make for the door.

"Donovan!" the red-faced manager of the Grille is standing in a now open doorway. A small throng of people are gathered behind him—Caroline included.

Great.

One cheek hot from the physical assault and the other from embarrassment, I slip past the manager and into hall filled with a disproportionate amount of my classmates. I let my hair fall in front of my face and take the emergency exit to my right instead of greeting the mob.

 **XXX**

"Bonnie," I greet my friend at the end of the day that never ends. I step out onto the porch to take the jacket and bag I left behind at the Grille after my hasty departure. "Thanks," I say with a grateful smile.

Bonnie winces at the sight of my face. What's her prob—Oh, right.

My face.

The sharp contrast cast by the illumination of the porch light can't be doing me any favors.

"Ouch. I almost didn't believe Caroline when she told me. Is that what you were in such a hurry to go do?" For one of the first times, I think I may be on the wrong end of Bonnie's reproachful judgment. I shake my head.

"Vicki was a very unwelcome detour. Believe me," I insist. Bonnie nods. "He disappeared just as I got close again—"

"He?" Bonnie's brow is furrowed, but she shakes it off and holds up a finger. "Pause on that for now. Don't freak out. I brought someone with me," she makes a gesture to another part of the veranda where our porch swing hangs in dim light. "I ran into him on my way here, and he said he was looking for _you_." She gives her eyebrows a suggestive waggle at the last part. I frown at her.

A figure moves from the darkness of the swing into the light and makes me jump backwards.

What the—

I'm pretty sure the swing still squeaks. How did I not notice him there?

Stefan Salvatore.

He has a dreamy, supplicating smile and kind, hesitant eyes. Nothing scary about him, except that my heart continues to gallop in alarm. Bonnie steps to my side in smug silence.

"Elena? Hi. Bonnie offered to walk me here."

 _I knew I was about to die._

"I thought you would want this back as soon as possible. I know I'd be crazy if I lost mine." He's extending a green, leather-bound book with an 'E' embossed on the cover between us.

My journal.

 _You can not run from a vampire._

"Where'd you get that?" I snap it away from him with startled eyes. I hadn't even noticed it was gone. How long has it been missing? Did he take it? Did he _read_ it!?

"Elena!" Bonnie scolds.

Stefan holds his hands up in apology. "I spotted it underneath the bleachers earlier. I'm sorry I had to run off in such a hurry before, but I figured 'E' had to be Elena—"

 _I saw the vampire that killed me._

"—I swear I didn't read it." His body language is genuine. His expression is wounded again. My face flushes with shame.

"No, I understand. You lost your family. No matter how prepared I think I am, it always catches me off guard when someone brings up my parents, and I didn't have very much tact today." I hold up the journal and smile. "Thank you, Stefan." He returns my smile with relief.

 _I recognized him._

"That was really sweet of you," Bonnie interjects, still not appeased by my show of gratitude. "You should—" she starts to gesture towards the open doorway.

"Eat lunch with us tomorrow. On the quad," I finish for her. I step back inside and tug her in with me.

"I'd like that," Stefan grins.

"It's late, and we've got girl talk to get to. See you tomorrow, Stefan."

 _It was Stefan Salvatore._

"Goodnight, Elena," his eyes linger on mine as he says my name and adds, "Goodnight, Bonnie," without looking away from me.

"Goodnight," Bonnie replies and turns towards the stairs, but I watch silent, standing at the open door, as he retreats.

Fun Elena screams and urges me forward after him. Romance Novel Heroine Elena imagines taking much more graphic action. Cynical, Her-Dad-Tortured-Vampires-In-His-Basement-And-Lied-To-Her-Face-About-It Elena curses the fact that the back of him is just as pretty as the front because she's convinced kind, sensitive, gorgeous Stefan Salvatore is too good to be true.

In the end, she wins out.

I close the door on Stefan and his hot back.

I'm not taking any chances.

 **XXX**

2:08 a.m.

September 8th, 2009

Dear Diary,

My best friend is a witch.

At least, that's what I've concluded from what she's told me and from what I've gleaned from the Johnathan Gilbert journals.

I told her everything—what I saw when I was a girl, what I found at the lakehouse, my suspicions of Stefan Salvatore. And Damon. I have not felt so relieved and unburdened since before the crash. Bonnie takes it all in stride. She's prescribed romantic fantasies to both of my supernatural suitors. Her words, not mine. It's nice to be able to view the situation with some levity, but that is the furthest thing from my mind at this point.

Well, maybe not the furthest.

Bonnie made a good point, though, when I showed her the passage that fingered Stefan Salvatore as a vampire. It's not uncommon for family names to get recycled in Mystic Falls, especially among descendants of founders. My own uncle shares a namesake with the journal's 19th century author.

Bon is more interested in the ring that allowed John Sr. To chronicle his own death. Finding out what became of it would be worth looking into, but at this point it's a few rungs down on a to-do list that keeps growing.

-Find Damon

-Make him stick around long enough to answer some of my questions

-Find my own answers when that plan inevitably fails

-Get back to the lakehouse and read the rest of the Gilbert journals

-Find a LIVING date to the Founder's Ball

-Don't give anyone any reason to think they should institutionalize me

-Start working out again

-Punch Vicki Donovan in th—

 **Thanks again for reading. It's great to get everyone's feedback, so keep it coming. I'm hoping to keep updating once a week. We'll see how it goes. So, look for an update next week to find out what caused Elena's journal entry to end mid-word.**


	6. Haunting Me

**I want to say thanks to everyone who is still following this story even after my hiatus. While I meant to be posting every week I have had a summer full of house guests including my brother in the Navy from Hawaii and my best friend from Florida. To make it up to you, I have two posts for you, the second of which includes what I hope is an anticipated Delena conversation. Any feedback is greatly appreciated.**

 _Devil's on you shoulder_

 _Strangers in your head_

 _As if you don't remember_

 _As if you can't forget_

 _A thousand silhouettes dancing on my chest_

 _No matter where I sleep, you are **haunting me**_

— _Aquilo_

— _Of Monsters and Men_

Something warms the left side of my face and shoulder. An uncomfortable numbness in my right foot stirs me. I pull it from under my other calf and let my leg swing from the knee over the side of the bed. Once I'm aware of my toes as they wiggle, I still again.

"Hey! No way," a voice gruff from sleep grumbles. "If there's two of you, I'm taking the first shower," followed by the thud of a door and the click of the lock.

Pipes gurgle. Water bursts forth in an unrelenting spray.

I wince, and the overwhelming smell of burnt roses singes the back of my throat. My wrists struggle against metal restraints in a failed move to block the torrent that drenches me. I bow my head and my hair becomes a dark, sodden curtain between me and the man rooted in a pair of motorcycle boots. They're the only thing I can see until the rain stops, and I can lift my face through the curtain again.

He leans against the Mystic Grille bar in dark jeans and a white t-shirt. Too-long, sooty black hair falls in his eyes and curls up at the base of his neck. Vicki approaches from behind him in her waitressing uniform and slides a serving tray on the bar next to him. She drags a hand from his shoulder to his elbow with a slow, intimate touch. She's staring at me as she does it, a smile in her eyes, before she disappears behind the bar.

Damon takes a tumbler from the tray and downs its dark, sinister contents with a swift and fluid swallow. He tosses the empty vessel back on the tray and pushes off of the bar, facing me. My brow furrows in confusion as he smiles at me. The inside of his lips are stained red. His concerning grin starts to carve creases in his cheeks and around his eyes. They shine—alight with a terrifying glee that has me straining against the chains that hold me.

"Damon?!"

"Elena," he imitates with an unflattering approximation of my desperate plea. Grabbing something else from the serving tray, he gives it a deft twirl around his pointer and middle two fingers. He stops it spinning between his pointer finger and thumb and makes a show of straightening it at his eyeline, scrunching up half his face in mock aim.

A precise flick of the wrist sets the dart free.

I flinch. My body jerks in another useless attempt to shield itself. By the time I open my eyes, the tiny missile has already found its home in my chest. Red blooms in an organic circle on my shirt, over my left breast. The spear is buried in flesh and cotton to the hilt of black flights that mark the epicenter of the bloody stain.

I gasp and look up at him. His eyes meet mine with unapologetic triumph.

"Bullseye," he chuckles. Red pours in around his irises. Dark veins writhe above his cheeks as he stares at my blood soaked chest.

"Elena? There's coffee downstairs," a woman calls from the Grille's kitchen. "I gotta run! Have a good day."

Huh?

I close my eyes and rub at my chest. There's no more dart, no material damp with blood, no chains—only the phantom of tightness in my chest where it was struck.

"Elena, wake up! Elena! We did it again. We're gonna be late." I open one eye to a bright daylight and take my time opening the other. The warmth on my face is pleasant, not so much the cramp in my left shoulder and the overall sensation of ache throughout the rest of me. That might have something to do with having the left side of my partially upright body shoved into the crevice where my window meets the wall.

I never made it to my bed last night. Instead, I fell asleep curled in my window seat with my journal still open in my lap. I swing my right leg back up on the cushion and stretch both my legs together with a groan. My journal falls upended on the floor, and the uncapped pen clatters behind it.

"Elena, did you hear me? Homeroom starts in twelve minutes."

I turn my face out of the blinding sun and find Bonnie's concerned expression. Fear for her attendance record is clear on her face, but she looks more refreshed. She finally got some sleep.

Good.

"Mmmmup," I moan. That was supposed to be actual words. Oh, well.

"Uh huh, sure." Bonnie's small hands tug at my arm. I sit up proper with my back to the window and my bare toes easing onto the cold floor. "What were you dreaming about? You were muttering and groaning. It's what woke me up."

"Don't remember," I lie. I rub at my shoulder again.

"Mmhmm. You sure Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome didn't make an appearance?" Bonnie badgers.

"He's not that tall," I mumble. Bonnie grins.

"Everyone's tall from down here," she giggles. I bite my lip and roll my eyes. The other half of my mouth curls into a smile anyway. I'll take whatever she's imagining over the Human Dartboard nightmare I experienced.

"I've gotta get in the shower, Bon. Do you want me to save you some hot water?" I push myself up using the heels of my palms on the edge of the bench.

"Nah. Just hurry. We've still got to get some concealer on that eye."

I stifle a groan and nod. Don't remind me. I eye my bed with a renewed longing for its safety, but leave it behind in favor of the shower. Missing school after what most of its students witnessed last night will only make the gossip worse.

When did I get so many mirrors? I try to avoid them all but catch my reflection in the bathroom vanity and grimace. It's not quite a shiner, but a bruise blooms beneath my left eye. On the same side of my face, red creases are pressed into my cheek from resting on my bunched up curtains all night. It makes me appreciate Bonnie's ability to keep an even expression in the face of the ridiculous, because I look it.

I turn my other cheek to the mirror so the face it reflects is closer to the pristine girl everyone is meant to see and sigh.

I don't have time for this.

I grab up my toothbrush, coat it in paste, and reach over to twist the water on.

My shower is both disconcerting and a comfort. I try not to think about it and don't linger even though my sore muscles sing under the water's spray and cry in its absence. I drape a towel over my shoulders and drag a hand across my clouded reflection. My bathrobe lies in a damp heap at the foot of the hook where it should be hanging.

"Dammit, Jeremy," I mutter. I take the towel from my shoulders and wrap it around my middle. After securing it under my arm, it stretches too tightly over my breasts. A triangle shaped gap reveals my hip and upper thigh where one end of the material refuses to meet the other. Good enough, I guess.

It takes long enough to blow dry my hair straight. My flat-iron is still on the counter from yesterday, but I don't have the patience or the time. Long mahogany falls down my back in the natural wave I've fought, at Caroline's urging, since joining the cheer squad in junior high.

I take a few more shortcuts in my traditional morning routine and emerge from the bathroom still wrapped in the inadequate towel.

"Bon, did you fin—" My intended inquiry is cut off by my own startled screech.

Perched on the seat he's abandoned for over a week, is Damon. Heat flushes my cheeks as I scramble to cover my overflowing chest with one arm and hold the towel closed over my thigh with the other.

The sun from the window backlights him with an apt spectral glow and changes his hair from black to a rich dark brown. His crystal blue eyes are luminous with laughter, none of the menace his gun-metal gaze had in my nightmare. He could be the angelic counterpart to that demon if it weren't for his smug ass grin.

"Nice towel." His smile curls further toward his taught jawline while thick hair dances on his pronounced brow.

"Oh my God!" I scream. My neck and collar are hot with embarrassment, but I'm still frozen in place.

"What!? What? Did you see a spider?" Bonnie's leaning out of the closet with startled concern pulling at her features. "Elena?" she presses when she can't find the offensive arachnid. I look at her and give my head a furious shake.

"Damon—" I choke out.

"He's here?" She vocalizes much more delight at the prospect than I feel. She gives my room a wild, directionless scan with big eyes. The fear she had for a creepy crawly is replaced by curiosity, and she steps out of the closet. She continues to throw glances around the room before meeting my eyes again.

Even if she could see him, she wouldn't find him. The window seat behind her is empty again.

"Uggh!" I groan. "Not anymore." Bonnie follows my line of sight and then looks back at me amused. She looks down at the slip dress she borrowed to wear and bites her lip.

"I guess it's a good thing I got changed in the closet." She looks back at my towel and bites down harder, fighting back a smile.

So much for that straight face, Bon.

I cover my face, and my audible frustration whistles through my fingers like a steam engine. Bonnie rests a hand on my shoulder. "C'mon. First period is about to start."

 **XXX**

"Tanner's an ass."

The conversation has circled back around to this morning's mortifying tardiness debacle, thanks to my meddlesome best friend. Not only am I the center of attention again, but Caroline is miffed to have her interrogation of Stefan interrupted. I was pretty content to listen to his accounts of all the places he's lived in the course of being dragged around as an army brat. It was taking my mind off this morning's even more mortifying towel incident. Lucky for me, Bonnie can't bring that up without a few prerequisite explanations.

Stefan's experiences are a bit exotic as far as Mystic Falls is concerned. Most of its residents haven't seen anything beyond their vacation homes. I've only ever been to Colorado, and that's because Mom's best college girlfriend and her family live there. We had vacations as kids, but Dad never wanted to stay far away from home for long in case a patient needed him.

Oh, wait.

That was probably code for needing to check in on his mad scientist lab and its bloodlusty resident. Right.

Bonnie is looking at me with expectation while Caroline does little to hide her pout.

"Not gonna get much of an argument from me," I grumble. It's a pretty succinct description.

The four of us are seated at a picnic table on the quad. Now that we're Juniors, we're allowed to take lunch outside of the cafeteria. Caroline skipped half of gym yesterday to lay claim to one of the few available tables and mark it as ours for the rest of the fair weathered days of the school year.

Despite Care's best intentions, I think I'd prefer the cool patch of grass, thirty feet from here, shaded by a tree from the afternoon sun. There's sweat pricking at the back of my neck, and my thicker than usual layer of foundation is melting. I nudge the remnants of my salad around in its plastic bowl. I've eaten all of the good bits out; all that's left are pieces of underdressed Romaine.

Bonnie nudges me with her elbow. I know where she's going with this. I drop my fork and look up at Stefan across from me at the table. He's already watching me with a kind smile.

After spending so much time with him in the light of day, It's hard to imagine Stefan Salvatore as a creature of the night. He's so damn nice—and not in the I-need-your-vote-for-homecoming kind of way Caroline is a master of.

"Thanks." I smile back at him, "For this morning, sticking up for me like that." And I am pretty grateful. It was only a cape short of heroic.

After a skillful avoidance of all of Bonnie's Damon related questions this morning, we managed to make it to school. Only we'd missed our window of opportunity to slip in between first and second period and were fifteen minutes late to History. Just in time to be put on the spot in Tanner's favorite game of Make Us All Feel Stupid Trivia: Obscure Civil War Facts Edition.

We've been hearing about the Battle of Willow Creek since junior high, longer for founding families, but all I could think about in the moment was that I knew so much more than Mr. Tanner could imagine. And none of it would be on the pop quiz.

The washed up high school football coach was kind enough to inform me that my dead parents get out of jail free card had expired. "The excuses ended with summer break, Miss Gilbert," he'd sneered in response to my inability to quote the casualties in Mystic Falls' own slice of little known civil war battlefield history. In a desperate attempt to save face, I offered up the only bit of information from Johnathan Gilbert's journals that wouldn't make me sound crazy. I mentioned the twenty-seven—we'll call them 'civilian'—deaths in the destruction of Fell's Church that night.

"Of course, there were no _civilian_ casualties of this battle," he dismissed. I tried to slink to my desk and nurse my wounded pride as someone cleared their throat among the pool of snickering students.

"Mr.—?" Tanner called.

"Salvatore, sir," Stefan answered. "No, she's right. Confederate soldiers fired on the church. They believed there were Union sympathizers inside."

The look on Tanner's face as Stefan offered to direct him to historical sources at Civil Hall is one I will cherish always.

"Don't mention it," Stefan answers my gratitude with a soft voice.

Caroline overpowers it with her own. "I wish one of you would have told me about the impromptu sleep over last night. We could have coordinated our outfits for the bonfire." Stefan's eyes linger on mine as she talks. It's distracting.

"It wasn't a plan, Care," Bonnie answers so I won't have to. "I had to take Elena her bag and we fell asleep chatting." The truth is as good as any excuse, minus a few details, but Care's already moved on.

"Oh!" she shouts delighted, grabbing Stefan's shoulder. He startles and breaks our eye contact. "You won't have heard about the bonfire, Stefan. It's down by the Falls, the first pep squad event of the year."

"I don't know, Caroline," Stefan waffles. "My uncle—"

"You should come," I interject, surprising more than just myself. Stefan's lips part as he looks back at me, and then he smiles. I try to avoid looking at Caroline all together.

"Heads up!" Tyler calls from behind me where he and Matt have been playing catch all but the five minutes of lunch it took to wolf down their cheeseburgers.

Before I can duck, a hand wearing a signet ring palms a football out of midair where it was on a clear collision course with my head. I suck in a breath. A hysteric giggle bubbles out of Bonnie.

A grin beams across Stefan's face in a way I haven't seen until now. It isn't careful and restrained like all of his other facial expressions seem to be.

"Watch where you're throwing that thing!" Caroline commands to the boys. Stefan, still leaning across the table top, pulls back and hurls the ball back at them. A pop followed by Tyler's grunt reveal the force behind the toss. Stefan's gleam of triumph reignites when I meet his eyes again.

"Nice catch," I smile, impressed. Bonnie tries to muffle another giggle and it comes out as a snort.

 **XXX**

I offer for Jeremy to ride with me and Bonnie to the bonfire since I know he doesn't have a ride and it's too far to walk. He lifts his headphones long enough to answer me with a "Nah, Thanks." and returns to his sketchbook at his desk. I close the door connecting his room to our shared bathroom and ready myself for the party. I'm more than a little nervous. I haven't been to one of these since the night my parents died; I wasn't even sure I was going until I was telling Stefan to come.

I dress in comfortable layers, a denim skirt, and leggings and touch up my makeup with careful attention to my left eye. I give my hair the treatment I neglected to this morning with my straightener and throw on a low hanging necklace. I hover near the window seat and watch for Bonnie, trying not to think about this morning's grinning occupant.

Bonnie's Prius slows to a stop in front of the house, and I give her a quick wave. In the hall, the door to Jeremy's room opens and he emerges wearing a hooded sweatshirt and some jeans.

"Change your mind." I smile, surprised.

"Is that okay?" he asks. "I convinced Sarah to come too. She lives close to the Falls. Do you think we could grab her on the way?"

Even though there are plenty of sensible reasons, my curiosity is what answers a quick "Sure. C'mon," without worrying whether or not Bonnie will mind. I've never seen the Salvatore Boarding House up close, tucked as it is in the Virginia woods and with occupants less interested than the Lockwoods in hosting extravagant parties.

Jeremy follows me downstairs. We wave at Jenna curled up on the couch with a laptop on one leg and a folded back psychiatric journal on the other. She takes the end of a highlighter from her mouth to send us off with a midnight curfew.

By the time we reach the end of the private road and arrive at the Salvatore's circle driveway, the sun has set. It's too dark to see much other that that the house is large and dark. We drive right under a steeply pitched roof overhang made of wood and brick. A massive wooden door is tucked into an arched brick alcove where Sarah waits until Bonnie slows to a stop in front of her.

A dark-skinned girl with long brown hair braided to the side ducks into the back seat. An old 35 mm camera hangs from a custom leather strap around her neck over a baggy white sweater. Underneath a pair of oversized glasses and thick brows are long lashes and soft chestnut colored eyes. She's pretty without trying to be, but hasn't quite grown into herself yet. Without a Caroline in my life, we probably wouldn't be too different.

The way she smiles at my brother, as I watch from my visor mirror, when he offers his overflowing "Hey." of a welcome warms my chest.

"Thanks for the ride," she offers to Bonnie in a timid voice.

"No problem," Bonnie answers, giving me a knowing smile before reaching for the gearshift. I stop her hand with mine and swing around to look at them.

"Did Stefan want a ride, too?" I ask, connecting for the first time that he lives here and we're all going to the same place.

"He's not home," is Sarah's simple reply.

"Oh." I mean I assumed when I told him he should come and he smiled back at me that meant he was coming. Everything with Matt was so easy. He was a football player, and I was a cheerleader so we went to all the same school activities and events already. When there was some sort of Founders event I had to attend, it was always a given that he would escort me. Even before we started dating—that was pretty much the reason we decided to start dating in the first place. I've been out of this game too long, and I'm not even sure if Stefan's the one I should be getting back into it with. I don't know him. Yesterday, I was convinced he was a vampire.

I shake my disappointment away and smile at Sarah. She looks like she could use some reassuring.

"I'm Elena, Jeremy's sister, and this is my friend Bonnie." Bonnie wiggles her fingers at the rear view mirror and puts the car into drive.

"Hi. Sarah." She gestures to herself.

"I know. Jeremy never shuts up about you." I grin.

"Really?" she asks with wide eyes. Jeremy glares at me.

"No." I chuckle, "Not really, but I have heard your name mentioned a few times. This your first bonfire?" Sarah's a sophomore, but given my brother's required persuasion, I doubt it's something she's attended. She nods. "Just stick to beer and don't smoke anything Chad Carpenter gives you." I turn back around in my seat and try to give them some privacy.

 **Let me know what you think. Another update will be up either tonight or tomorrow.**


	7. Some Silhouette

**Update No. 2 Thanks again to everyone who's still reading.**

 _But I'm already there, I'm already there_

 _Wherever there is you, I will be there too_

 _It's only been a moment_

 _It's only been a lifetime_

 _But tonight you're a stranger_

 _ **Some silhouette**_

— _Of Monsters and Men_

— _Aquilo_

Jeremy and Sarah break off from us when we arrive for a log near the fire. Bonnie and I head in the direction of a keg and fill two blue plastic cups. I make mine mostly foam on purpose. The key to staying sober at one of these things is the appearance of drunkeness. Case in point, two guys offer to get me a drink on our way closer to the fire. I wiggle my half empty cup at them, and they move on to other prospects.

"Where do you think he is?" Bonnie asks when we stop close enough to the crackling flames to warm my calves.

"Who?"

"Romance Novel Stare," she responds, knowing I can't be ignorant of who she means. For a second, when she asked I thought of Damon. But of course she means Stefan. She doesn't know Damon's gaze is just as intense.

"You picked up on that did you?" I roll my eyes and bite back a smile. "Your guess is as good as mine," I sigh in answer to her earlier question. She acknowledges my disappointment with a sympathetic nod.

"Any news on the supernatural admirer front?" I scowl at her; she doesn't need encouragement, but I can't manage to be too scathing.

"Not since this morning," I mutter, trying to hide my blush behind a sip of beer. I can tell she's masking her enthusiastic curiosity as idle girl chat, and I don't want to legitimize anymore of her teasing.

"So the two of you really haven't talked at all?"

"Nope. Not unless you count being accused of killing him after he realized I could see him. I think he's sulking—payback for ignoring him. Honestly, he's a bit of an ass if you ask me." I say the last with a pointed look past Bonnie at a figure leaning against a tree. When Bonnie realizes I'm not talking to her anymore, she sucks in a small breath and sets her face in a determined reproach.

"Sounds like a classic wounded male ego," she postures. "He needs to suck it up and recognize a damn lucky windfall. You, Elena Gilbert, are the ghost jackpot!" She finishes loud enough for many of the clustered teenagers near us to hear as well, but they just assume tiny-framed Bonnie has already succumbed to intoxication. A few of them chorus their support with shouts and raised bottles and cups.

I can't help but laugh and mouth my silent thanks to Bonnie. A deep chuckle echoes mine from the shadows. I catch the creases of a grin etched in one of his cheeks before he disappears. It's the first time I've been able to watch him go or dematerialize or whatever it is ghosts do when they leave. It catches my breath in my chest. The Batman exits are far lass disconcerting than watching him exist and not in the same moment.

Bonnie leans in to wrap her arm around my waist and whispers, "Did he hear me?"

"Yeah," I nod. "But he's gone again. At least he seems in a better mood than he has been."

"Well, duh," she returns to her normal voice. "After the show he got this morning—"

"Bonnie!" I interrupt. She giggles into her cup.

"Besties!" Caroline exclaims from behind us with her cheer captain enthusiasm. She pushes in between us, wraps an arm around both of our shoulders and nuzzles into Bonnie's neck.

"Hey, Care," we both greet her. The cup in her hand hanging at my cheek smells like coconut and liquor. She perks her head up.

"After the show you gave who this morning? Elena Gilbert, did you have a boy in your bedroom!? Spill, please!" She grins, delighted. I blanch for a moment before trying to adopt Bonnie's poker face skills.

"Nobody, Care," I assuage. "Bon's been trying to catch me up on the routines from cheer camp. I was practicing this morning and bit it in front of Heathcliffe." The stuffed Koala Matt won me on our first date to the school carnival freshman year. I named him after just having read _Wuthering Heights_ for the first time and declaring that he had Heathcliffe's dark stormy eyes. Matt struck me silent with a haphazard kiss while we waited in the parking lot for my parents, an attempt to avoid admitting he had no idea what I was talking about.

I called Caroline the moment I got home. The memory stings, especially as Bonnie gives my lie a silent seal of approval. I hate lying—so does Bonnie—but despite trying to make light of it all, we both agreed to keep Caroline in the dark until it's clear how much danger knowing all of this puts her in.

"Oh, come on you guys," Caroline huffs as she pulls her arms back. "There's something you're not telling me," she pouts.

"Really, there's not," I insist.

"Maybe you've had a bit too much," Bonnie says as she plucks Caroline's drink from her hand.

"It's not just in my head." Caroline stamps her foot like a petulant child. "You guys can't keep doing this! All huddled up together and leaving me out. It's starting to feel like it's on purpose." Neither of us say anything for a moment, Bonnie's face reflecting the guilt I feel.

"Care—" we both try to start at once, which only frustrates her more.

"Uggh!" Caroline tilts her head to the smoky stars and cries exasperated, "Whatever!" before stomping off in the direction of one of the pavilions—an excellent sign she wants someone to follow after her.

Bonnie watches her and turns to me, "It's probably best if only one of us—"

"Go," I nod and she jogs off in our friend's direction.

 **XXX**

Without Bonnie and Caroline, the party becomes a lot less interesting. Unguarded by the company of my friends, I'm left vulnerable to pointless smalltalk, awkward sympathies and mild harassment. I use the excuse of needing more to drink to extricate myself from a dull conversation about SAT prep with Trish Stannert. It's bizarre how lonely you can feel in a crowd full of strangers you've known your whole life.

I give the groups of people another cursory glance as I walk in the direction of one of the kegs. Stefan still hasn't made an appearance. The embarrassment of assuming he would be here because I invited him flares up now that I realize I have no other reason to be here. The best I can hope for now, is that Bonnie will make things better with Caroline, Care will be drunk enough that she wants to leave already, and we'll get coffee at the Grille and head home.

The kegs are positioned on the outskirts of the party far enough away from the heat of the fire to keep the beer cold. Beyond that is just woods until you reach the outer road. Its a short walk I made while talking on my cell phone before the last minutes I spent with my parents. I stare into the distance until I can't make out the difference between trees and the dark spaces in between.

"Elena?" The voice matches the familiarity of the gentle grip on my shoulder. "Are you okay?" Matt asks as I turn back towards the fire to face him. He drops his hand from my arm and we both ignore the intimacy of it.

"Mmhmm. I'm fine," I smile. Its one of my better efforts, but I find myself disappointed when Matt seems to accept it without question. He smiles back at me, pleased that I seem to be doing better.

"Elena," he starts, his expression wrinkled in contrition. "I wanted to apologize." My confused expression provokes the addition, "—for my sister. I don't know what Vicki—" his words reignite the memory of my stinging cheeks, and I wince.

"No, Matt. You don't have to apologize. Your sister was just looking out for you."

"Well, I don't need her to get involved. She shouldn't have said anything to you and she shouldn't have . . ." He drifts off as he reaches up to trace my cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. I pull back before he can touch my skin and frown. I'm not as good with the concealer as Bonnie.

I understand now why he's so ready to accept that I'm okay, that I'm getting better. He thinks my grief is the only thing keeping us apart.

"I've been a shitty person to you, Matt. Vicki was right about that. I'm still being a shitty person, because I've let you wait for me, to hope. The truth is we were always better off as friends." There's pain in his expression, but Matt masks it well. I've seen him grow accustomed to disappointments in his life, but I never believed I would cause such a painful one. Tears start to well in my eyes; I grit my teeth against them.

"Ouch." A voice comments from behind us and pretends to hiss from imagined pain. Tyler Lockwood puts an arm around Matt's shoulders. A flush creeps up Matt's fair skin. I furrow my brow in anger, and the tears I've built up spill over.

"Don't be a jerk, Tyler," I grit out. When I try to meet Matt's eyes with an apology, he looks away.

"You're drunk," Matt grunts as he shoves Tyler off of him.

"So should you be, my friend," Tyler responds with a tip of his drink to me. Matt rolls his eyes and stomps off toward the fire. Tyler takes a long drink and shrugs at me before tossing his empty cup aside and chasing after him.

I look down at the dregs of beer still swirling around the bottom of my cup. I sigh and discard it with Tyler's before turning and heading into the woods.

 **XXX**

Most of the hike to the road is spent thinking about the last time I made it. I've had the conversation I should have had with Matt that night. It didn't take so many words. The fight we had instead to avoid this conversation took more words, more breath, more energy and said nothing. Part of me wonders if I could fold time up in these woods. They're the same trees. If I could overlap this night and that one and come out on the road to find my parents waiting for me, could I say more with less words like I did with Matt?

I try not to think about changing the outcome of that night. The indecision I have between avoiding the accident altogether and joining my parents scares me.

The light of the moon blinks at me until I step out of the thinning trees onto the shoulder of the road and its soft luminosity is uninterrupted. I trace the path of constellations I made up when I was a girl and the real ones I memorized after my dad showed them to me.

When I let my eyes fall back to earth, I have to muffle a short screech with my hand. My heartbeat gallops at the sight of a body lying in the road. I take a few quick steps forward before fear halts me, but the instinct to help is a hard one for me to fight. I register the fact that there is no car nearby and the man—not a teenager—in the road is clicking his boots together with a certain amount of unburdened glee _after_ I begin to move towards him.

"Damon?" The realization seems to occur to me the same time I speak it. "What are you doing?" He's dressed in all black so that his hands and his face are the only things that shine against the blacktop. He's stretched out across two lanes, just like he was that day on the dock with his arms crossed under his head and his eyes on the heavens.

"Waiting for you," he replies without looking away from the stars. His grin curls into the cheek I can see and calms my leftover fear. A different kind of worry stills me thirty feet away from him. After chasing him for so long, my body is rigid with the apprehension of what to do now that I've caught up to him. I'm frozen trying to delay the moment between now and whatever I'll say that will make him disappear again.

"In the middle of the road?" I shatter the hesitant silence with judgmental incredulity. Because that won't piss him off and make him pop out of existence. Stupid.

Damon chuckles as he props himself up on his elbows and forearms. I let out a breath and fight against a shiver. I should've drank more.

"Call it a last ditch attempt before I give up and admit that you're the only one around here with a pulse that can help me." He jumps up from the ground and shoves his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. His boots make such a realistic crunching against the asphalt. "It's hard for someone to ignore the fact that they can see you if they think they're going to run you over," he adds in the space of conversation I've left vacant.

"You want me to help you?" All this time searching for Damon so I could ask him all of my questions, I never considered that there might be something I could do for him. The astonishment in my question seems to put a sour taste back in Damon's mouth as he contemplates whether or not it's worth it to climb over his pride to ask me for help. He begins to close the distance between us while making a point of running his tongue from one extended canine to the other.

"What I want is to rip your throat out like I should have the day we met," he shrugs and stops a few feet in front of me. "But missed opportunities and all that." I frown in an effort to hide my insecurity. My judgment of Damon's character was based in large part on his determination to let me go ten years ago. Hearing him call that decision a mistake stings more than it scares me.

Hurt must not be what he expected from me, because he drops his facade of posturing intimidation and his eyes narrow in curiosity at me. "You've been crying again," he observes after a moment. He says it without mocking or cruelty, just as if he wishes I wouldn't. I furrow my brow and then wipe at my cheeks to find them still damp.

My face burns when I think about all the times he's seen me cry. I spent so much time trying to convince myself he wasn't real that I didn't really consider how often he saw me with my guard down.

"I got into a fight with my ex-boyfriend," saying it out loud to Damon makes it seem so trivial and makes me feel childish. He doesn't look at me that way. He lifts an eyebrow above the other.

"The quarterback? What about?" Of all the conversations I've imagined—Damon raises his hands in surrender. "May I ask?" he adds with a smile.

"He's still in love with a girl I don't think I've ever been." His eyes drop to the ground as he continues to smile, shakes his head and then looks back up at me.

"You've always been her, Elena. What you wanted out of life just outgrew what he could offer." My mouth opens to say something but it catches in my throat. I shake my head and swallow.

"I don't know what I want," I insist, but Damon dismisses it.

"You want what everybody wants," he says with a bounce as he takes a step closer. I roll my eyes and bite my lip to keep him from seeing me smile too wide.

"What's that?" I challenge, "A smart ass ghost that spies on her in the shower." He chuckles and looks away.

"That one was your fault," he says with a finger pointed at my chest when he looks back at me. " _You_ called _me_."

What does that mean? Damon seems annoyed at my apparent confusion. "It's been a long time since anyone's thought about me. Not until your dad kicked it anyway. Then it was like I couldn't go anywhere without you tugging me along." I ignore the dig about my dad.

"I've been _calling_ you?" All the time I was trying to get rid of him, it was me that was keeping him there?

"Yep," he pops the 'p' at the end with a smug twinkle in his eyes. "If you don't want a repeat of this morning, you should try not thinking about me while you're in the shower." I roll my eyes and tuck my hair behind my ear, but I know my blush gives me away. I don't know how helpful it would be to explain that the reason I called him was because I was having nightmares about acid showers and him stabbing me with darts.

"So what is it that I want, Damon?" I want to change the subject, and I'm still kind of curious where he was going with this. He stops to think for a moment and then steps forward with a widening grin.

"You want a love that consumes you," he starts. "You want passion, an adventure, even a little danger." His smile is crooked while he waits for my response. A laugh bursts out of me before I can stifle it, but Damon doesn't seem offended. "I knew you knew how to laugh." As if that were his intention all along.

"Has that line ever worked?" I giggle.

"It's been over fifty years since I've had a chance to test it out," he shrugs. His comment quiets me.

"What? My dad couldn't have—"

"Look, Elena that's a much longer story than I feel like telling now," he stops me.

"Am I ever going to get to hear it or are you just going to disappear again?"

"I told you, I've given up on trying to ignore you." I scowl at him. That's not exactly how he put it before.

"So what do _you_ want?"

The question seems to catch him off guard, and he hesitates for a moment before my phone begins to buzz and interrupts any answer he would have given me. My phone vibrates without interruption from the pocket of my skirt. Damon covers any sincere emotion he may have revealed with his coy grin and flashing blue eyes.

"You gonna answer that?"

 **There it is. Lengthier discussions are to be had between them now that Damon is done pouting and realizes he needs Elena's help. Let me know what you think, and I'll try not to leave you hanging for too long this time.**


	8. If I Stumble

**Thanks again to everyone who continues to follow this story. The feedback I receive continues to be awesome and keeps me excited to keep going.**

 **Here's the second part of the bonfire! Enjoy!**

 _I tremble_

 _They're gonna eat me alive_

 _ **If I stumble**_

 _They're gonna eat me alive_

 _Can you hear my heart_

 _Beating like a hammer_

 _Beating like a hammer_

 _Help, I'm alive_

 _My heart keeps beating like a hammer_

 _Hard to be soft_

 _Tough to be tender_

— _Metric_

Bonnie is calling me. The picture I dedicated as her icon is lighting up the screen of my phone when I pull it from my pocket, but the call goes to voicemail before I can answer it. I look back up from my phone to find Damon; he's already gone.

Of course. I roll my bottom lip under my teeth and smile. I know now that it won't be the last time I see him. There's reassurance in that for me.

Besides, I need a chance to gather my thoughts. I need to be able to hold a conversation with him where everything coherent doesn't just fly out of my head.

I start to head back in the direction of the bonfire, phone still in hand. Before I can hit the button to call her back, the phone buzzes the arrival of a text message.

 **Where r u?!**

I chuckle to myself at the added exclamation points. Bonnie must've made up with Caroline by having another drink. Let's hope it wasn't whatever tropical concoction Care got a hold of.

I dial Bonnie back, following the orange glow of the fire back to the campsite and pavilions. She answers after the first ring.

"Elena?! Oh my God, Elena! Where are you? Are you okay?" Her frantic voice greets me. It's panicked and sober.

"Hey! I'm fine. I'm on my way back from the road. I just needed to get some—"

"Oh, thank God!" There's relief in her voice but no deescalation of her frenzy.

"Bonnie, What's wrong?" I pick up speed along with my heart rate.

"It's Caroline. I tried talking to her, but she was already so drunk, and you know how she can be, and then she just walked off angry into the woods—" Bonnie's run-on description of events continues, but I've stopped listening.

I'm frozen in place, trying not to breathe. A moment ago, somewhere in these woods close enough for me to a hear it, a branch snapped under too much pressure. A forceful wind blows my hair into my face. My eyes strain against the darkness and my ears the stillness, but the night and the sound of my own pulse swallows everything.

I stumble back towards my fiery beacon and scream at the silhouette standing between it and myself. My phone tumbles to the forest floor. He wiggles his fingers and breathes an amused "Boo."

"Dammit," I growl as I squat to the ground to find my phone. The muffled tones that were coming from the speaker have stopped. "That's not funny," I mutter up at him as his chest hums with soft laughter.

"Scaredy Cat," he accuses. I ignore him and drag my fingers through the cool detritus of dead leaves and muck.

I find my phone after Bonnie begins calling my name loud enough for me to hear it from the ground. I drag it and my hands across my skirt and put the phone back to my ear as I stand. My clumsy efforts to find my way back to the bonfire are more urgent than before.

"Elena!? Are you there?! Elena! ELENA!"

"I'm okay. Bonnie, I'm here. It's just Damon—" I say the last with a pointed look at the shadow of a man walking beside me.

"Did you hear me Elena? Caroline she—it's bad. There's blood. Wait, you're in the woods?! Get back here now, Elena! Get out of the woods." I shiver against a cold I shouldn't feel under my jacket and pick up my pace. There's no line at the keg up ahead even though the party should be long from ended.

"Bonnie! Bonnie, slow down. What happened to Caroline?" The fire is abandoned. Everyone's gathered under or around one of the pavilions. Sirens flash between the trees.

"She was in the woods, Elena. She was attacked. Something _bit_ her!" The line falls empty with a heavy quiet. We both know what she means.

"Okay, Bon. I'm here," I tell her before my phone hangs forgotten in my hand. I look to Damon to contradict what my trembling body already knows. He's not in the business of doing me any favors. His eyes are narrowed, but his expression is intrigued as if he's itching to watch the next episode of a soap opera.

I scowl at him and begin to push through the crowd of people, fighting my way to the center. I catch a glimpse of Damon's mocking grin before he cuts through the crowd like butter, leaving me behind.

I exert a less than polite "Excuse me!" before pushing through the last barrier of gawkers surrounding one of the picnic tables. Four people and an infuriating ghost stand at the the center of the crowd, gathered around what I can see of Caroline lying on the tabletop. Bonnie breaks off from the other attendants when she sees me at the edge of the spectators.

"Elena!" she exclaims in relief as she grabs my hand and pulls me toward the picnic table. "Elena's okay," she announces to the others as we stop short of the table.

"What about Caroline? What happened?" I ask with a long look at Bonnie. I can't ask either of the things that I want to know most.

The crowd on the other side of the pavilion, nearest to the parking, parts for the arrival of two paramedics and the Sheriff. My chest constricts at the troubled face of Liz Forbes. A rustling in the crowd grows as many of them shuffle to gather their things or find their friends and leave while the Sheriff is still distracted.

Two of the people at Caroline's side—Tyler and Vicki—step away. Tyler looks sobered by it all, but Vicki looks the most distressed of the two. Her hair is mussed and the back of her leather jacket is scratched; there's dirt on the palms of her hands and the knees of her leggings. Instead of seeking comfort from Tyler, she puts distance between them and watches her brother with anxious eyes.

Matt is still with Caroline. He stands at her side waiting for instructions from the paramedics in his undershirt. The thermal vest he was wearing lies discarded on the ground and the long-sleeve, hooded shirt he had underneath is bunched up and pressed up against my friend's neck. There's blood smeared across the left side of her face, plastering what would otherwise be golden hair to the side of her head. The neck and shoulder of her pink blouse is stained red. I've never seen any living person look so pale.

Damon stands over her like death, waiting for the paramedic to remove Matt's shirt long enough for him to get a good look at the wound.

Bonnie wraps herself around my right arm. "She ran into the woods," Bonnie whispers to me. "I got Matt to help me look for her, but Vicki found her. She was out there with Tyler, and she heard Caroline scream."

"Did anyone see anything?" Bonnie releases my arm and shakes her head.

"I don't think so. Vicki hasn't said much since Matt carried Caroline back. Caroline's been unconscious since we found her. Do you really think it could be . . ." She trails off, unable to say it.

"Yep," a voice chimes in, filling the silent void she left. I jump and then grimace, groaning my disapproval of Damon's abrupt appearance. "Mystic Falls has itself a vampire problem. Again." He says 'problem' as if something as simple as a fumigator could solve it.

"Damon certainly thinks so," I mutter while glaring in his direction.

Bonnie's eyes follow the direction of mine and scan the empty air she sees next to me. She gives up and turns to watch Caroline being carried on a stretcher to the ambulance waiting in the parking lot. I observe her expression darken with a reality I've lived in since the contents of my parents' closet confirmed that my nightmares are real.

When her eyes search for Damon again they're full of fear and distrust. The curiosity and wonder with which she regarded the discovery of the supernatural is gone.

Damon seems to pick up on Bonnie's change in countenance and narrows his eyes at her.

"I knew there was a witch in there somewhere," he remarks. "Cool it, Bon-fire," he directs at her, "I haven't had a drink in a decade. _I'm_ not the one who turned your chatty blond friend into a snack."

Bonnie looks from where Damon stands to me and shivers.

"Can you hear him?" I ask her under my breath. She shakes her head.

"It's more like that tickle you get on the back of your neck when someone's talking about you behind your back."

This amuses Damon. I try to ignore him, but I have to keep reminding myself to try harder every time he catches me glancing at him and smiles.

Smug bastard.

"Maybe you should pop out for a little while," I suggest with a grumble.

"Nah," he shrugs. "It's just starting to get interesting around here. You're not going to get rid of me that easily, Gilbert." He says my last name like it's a bad taste in his mouth. The association with my dad is not lost on me.

The arriving deputies have wrangled everyone into groups sitting at, by or standing on the picnic tables while they wait to be questioned. Even the ones who tried to make a quick escape have been corralled back underneath or near this gazebo. The din of conversation is electrified now that the somber prop of Caroline's unconscious form has been removed.

Matt joins us a minute later wrapped in a blanket from one of the deputies. He crosses the throng of people from where he was talking with Sheriff Forbes. Tyler and Vicki are still there. Vicki still looks stricken as she answers the Sheriff's questions. I see Tyler reach out to grab her hand, but she yanks it away and crosses her arms over her chest.

"They think she's going to be okay. She lost a lot of blood, but she got help in time," Matt tells us—well tells Bonnie. He avoids eye contact with me. Bonnie expresses her relief. They continue the conversation, but I'm distracted by Damon rolling his eyes at Matt.

"You're just a regular hometown hero, aren't you, Quarterback? On the field and off." I suppress a smile. Damon must not know that Mystic Falls doesn't do much winning on the football field.

The crowd begins to thin as the deputies finish their questions and send the chastised teenagers on their way. The majority of everyone didn't see or hear much, so it doesn't take long. The Sheriff has finished with Vicki and Tyler and is making her way to the parking lot to meet the animal control officer. I give the crowd an absent glance so I can keep avoiding eye contact with Matt. And Damon.

After a scan of what remains of the party, my heart drops into my stomach. Panic and guilt claw up my throat as I swing around to search the campsite in desperate fear.

"Elena? Hey, what's wrong?" Bonnie asks after I turn back to look at her, and she sees my face. I grab her wrist.

"Where's my brother, Bonnie?! Where's Jeremy?!" Bonnie and Matt's eyes widen, but they offer no solutions. Only useless gaping, before Bonnie starts to stumble through possible scenarios that all end with him being 'perfectly fine'.

I can't hear her. All I can hear is Damon's stoic observation of "Probably dead." And I can't scream at him for it, because I'm choking on the possibility or the probability that he's right.

 **XXX**

"Sheriff! Sheriff Forbes!" I yell as I watch Caroline's mom walk towards her squad car. A deputy almost too green to wear a badge holds me back at the edge of the parking lot for the campsite and the trail head.

"Please step back, Miss Gilbert until you've been cleared to leave by one of the deputies," he repeats for the third time.

"Well you're a deputy aren't you? Clear me," I insist. 

"If you haven't given your statement—"

"Her statement is she didn't see anything. She wasn't even here when anything happened," Bonnie presses from behind me. Matt catches up to us after asking around about Jeremy.

"Nobody's seen him or Sarah since before they found Caroline. Did you talk t—" The incompetent deputy steps in front of Matt as well and blocks him with an outstretched arm.

"No one is permitted to leave until they've been cleared." 

"Look, Man," Matt starts with an eyebrow raised. "Her brother and another girl are missing. She needs to talk to the Sheriff right there." He points at the Sheriff standing with her driver door open, talking to someone on her radio.

He turns to me. "I've already been cleared. I'll get her," he moves to leave, but the deputy puts his hand on his chest to stop him.

"If you need to amend your statement to include suspected missing persons, you'll have to be cleared by my supervisor." It sounds as if he's quoting an Ignorant Small Town Deputies for Dummies manual.

Matt looks down at the hand still pressed against his chest and back up at its owner's badge when something dawns on him.

"Deputy Bradley? You're Aaron Bradley. Didn't you date my sister a couple years back? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I have a picture your supervisor might be interested in. Lighting up with my sister in the back yard? Who's your supervisor? Nobody better than the Sheriff herself, I suppose." Bradley's face pales as he drops both the hand stopping Matt and the outstretched arm blocking us.

I don't wait for anymore permission. The Sheriff closes her car door and turns the engine over. By the time I reach the parking lot, the car is rolling into motion. I jump in its path, the brakes making a short screech as I slap a hand on the hood.

Liz Forbes' eyes widen behind the windshield.

"Elena!" I hear her shout as she exits the vehicle and comes around the front, leaving the door open. "What on earth were you thinking? I could have hit you!" Her expression, a mix between anger and parental frustration, dissolves into concern when she gets a clear view of my face. "Elena, what's wrong? I should be at the hospital."

I don't have room for the sting of guilt I push down for co-opting Caroline's mom again.

"My brother's missing. Jeremy's gone. He's not answering his phone; no one has seen him—" The Sheriff steps forward and puts her hands on my shoulder to steady me. My whole body is shaking.

My parents are gone. Jeremy is my responsibility. Mine. What have I done?

"Whoa, Elena. Slow down a second. When did you see him last?"

"He was at the fire with Sarah when we got here. Sarah Salvatore. They're both gone." The Sheriff seems to find something reassuring in this.

There's not. I wish I could scream at her about vampires and witches and the haunting words Jonathan Gilbert wrote that play on repeat in my head.

"Did you try calling Sarah? They might be together somewhere."

"I don't have her number." I reply with a desperate shake of my head.

"Well, what did your Aunt say? Has Jeremy been home?"

Oh, God. Jenna. I fumble my phone out of my pocket again, but the Sheriff stops me before I can dial. "Elena, look." She spins me back in the direction of the campsite in time to see Matt and my brother talking at the edge of the pavilion. Matt says something and points in our direction before my brother follows his indication to find me.

The invisible grip on my chest loosens. I suck in a big breath and leave the Sheriff behind. His own steps towards me are quick ones, but I end up meeting him more than what would have been halfway between us.

"Jeremy!" I gasp. "What have you—Where did—Why haven't you—" I can't seem to find which question I want answered first. When I reach him, though I ache to hug him for the relief I feel, I end up stopping short of where he stands and shoving him in the shoulder as hard as I can manage. He stumbles, caught off guard, slow to catch himself from losing balance. When he looks back at me with a bewildered expression, his eyes are tired and rimmed in red.

"Are you high?" is the first question I manage to complete in an astonished whisper after discovering my brother, the closest family I have left, has indeed not been mauled by a vampire. I need better priorities.

"God, Elena," Jeremy defends. "No." He looks past me at Sheriff Forbes, now that she's caught up to both of us.

"You gave your sister quite a scare, Jeremy Gilbert. Can you point me in the direction of Miss Salvatore, so I can have a word with her as well?" Jeremy's face falls blank as he gapes back at the Sheriff. He looks at me, furrows his brow and then looks back at Liz.

"Sarah? She's not here?" he asks in a slow and soft voice, almost as if he's asking himself.

"Elena said no one has seen either of you for a while. That you came to the party together?" The Sheriff offers. There's a desperate searching in my brother's expression.

"I—" he starts, then stops again. "She wanted to take some pictures—We went up to the Falls, and then we talked for a while, and I was walking back t—I saw the sirens."

"Alone?" I interject. By Sheriff Forbes' expression, the transition of pronouns seems to alarm her as much as it does me. Jeremy's eyes dart towards me; he looks pained, still searching his memory for answers.

After a moment, he lands on a definitive "Yes," and looks back at the Sheriff who watches him with skepticism as she reaches for the radio on her shoulder.

"Byrd, get all of these kids home, now. Take all of their names and make sure they get home safe." Her eyes don't lift off of my brother.

"I don't mind finishing up, Sheriff," Deputy Byrd crackles back out of her shoulder.

"Now, Byrd. I've got a missing girl on my hands. Sarah Salvatore." Jeremy's face is crestfallen at this and it makes my throat tighten. "I need everyone back at the station as quickly as possible to organize the search effort," she finishes, releasing the button. "And keep me updated on my daughter," she adds, holding it back down again after a pause.

"Heard, Sheriff," the radio answers. I wrap my hand around my brother's upper arm and give it a squeeze. The Sheriff gestures to her car as she makes her way around the hood to the driver's side.

"Both of you, in." She tilts her head at the car.

Jeremy obliges without word or question, his lips tight and his expression stuck in disbelief. He pulls his arm from my useless grip.

"Where're we going, Sheriff?" I ask as I slide into the seat next to her. She flicks on the lights, but not the siren.

"The Salvatore Boarding House."

I would leave all of my architectural curiosity unsatisfied to avoid witnessing the wake up call Sarah's dad is about to receive. Imagining my brother answering the same visit four months ago draws my eyes to the rear view mirror. Stark flashes of red and blue illuminate his face as he traces the accelerating woods with absent eyes. My heart sinks further into my guilty gut.

My responsibility.

My fault.

 **So, in typical TVD/Delena fashion, poorly timed disaster interrupts them. Poor Sarah. I had intended to explore her character a little more before tragedy befell her. Maybe we'll get the chance if she's found alive. With Damon out of the running, let me know who you think is behind the attacks.**

 **You would be right to wonder why Damon was absent for the second scene. Don't worry. He'll be back.**

 **Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think and if you're looking forward to future chapters. I'll try to be as timely as possible. I appreciate all of your feedback and love. And if you've been reading, but haven't reviewed yet—Speak up. I want to hear from everyone. :)**

 **Till next time.**


	9. Strangle of Vein

**Hey, all! Sorry again for the abysmal wait. I struggled a bit with this one, but it is done. This day in the story feels like it never ends. I'm sure Elena is pretty exhausted with it as well. Enjoy.**

 _Driven by the **strangle of vein**  
Showin' no mercy I do it again  
Open up your eyes  
You keep on crying, baby I'll bleed you dry  
Skies are blinking at me  
I see a storm bubbling up from the sea_

 _And it's coming closer_

— _Kings of Leon_

There's an unnatural silence between the three of us—me, my brother and Stefan. The size of this massive room Zach Salvatore called a parlor swallows us. The excessive number of drapes, curtains and ornamental rugs in varying hues of deep red dampen all the sound, absorbing it and weaving it among the extravagant threads. I imagine them thick with secrets as old as everything else seems to be here.

Sheriff Forbes and Sarah's dad are continuing their discussion in an adjacent room with extensive furnishings that are as vague an indication of its purpose as the ones in this room. Whether or not they are attempting not to be heard, their voices are swallowed up with the rest of the sound.

I glance at my brother again in an effort to avoid cluing Stefan in on the fact that I can feel the intensity with which he watches me. I don't know if he aims to unnerve me, but I am unwilling to reveal the effect it has on me. Jeremy's expression is distant. Exhaustion creeps in around his eyes and face. It twists my heart, and I look away to a painting of a man in a ruffled collar instead of at either of them.

Watching my brother trying to recall the events of tonight for a second time, in front of a man I could tell he respects and admires, was painful. My inability to protect him from pain, from the things in the night that shouldn't exist, from more loss makes me feel powerless and small.

After a few pulls of the bell, a punctuating pound of the knocker, and a considerable wait, an orange glow illuminated the antique glass set into the ancient door. We stood stoic at the threshold, three pairs of shoulders laden with the weight of bearing this bad news. The lock disengaged with a click and the heavy wooden barrier eased open enough to reveal the back-lit silhouette of a young man.

"Elena?" There was surprise and a curious delight in the question before he reached to the side to flick on two outdoor sconces and pulled the door open the rest of its remaining arc. Aided by the new light source, the flash of panic in his eyes as he discovered my companions was clear to me. "Sheriff?" This question by comparison was not a curiosity but a creeping worry, an alarm. I stepped aside to let the Sheriff answer but continued to watch him with scrutiny.

"Stefan, can you get your Uncle for me? I need to speak with him?"

He wore a pair of jeans and a hooded long sleeve shirt. I furrowed my brow and stared at the black leather boots with the beginnings of laces that disappeared underneath his denim hems.

"He's asleep upstairs. Is there something I can—"

"Has your cousin been home yet tonight? Has she called or checked in?"

I didn't see his reaction because I continued to watch his boots. It was after midnight. Why was he wearing them?

The soft voice of a man pulled my eyes upward again.

"Why don't you get the fire going in the parlor, Stefan?" The age of the man standing behind Stefan with a hand on his shoulder was difficult to discern. The only clues to some advanced years were his grey-haired temples and the wear around a pair of green eyes the same as his nephew's.

Stefan's eyes captured mine as I attempted to look anywhere but at Sarah's dad. The odd look of hope there as Stefan stared at me was startling. It turned to defeat at the sight of my frown. He turned from all of us, illuminating his path through the house with the rousing of soft, warm lights on his way to the fire place.

"What's going on, Liz? Sarah's a good kid; she's never caused any trouble. If something's—"

"I know, Zach. We should speak inside. You know Jeremy Gilbert. This is his sister, Elena." He gave us a nod and stepped aside to let us past the threshold without a word of invitation.

It never would have gained my notice if what I knew didn't give such a small gesture so much significance. My heart sped up as we followed the Sheriff into the entryway. I jumped at the sound of the heavy door latching.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. S." My brother's face was pale and miserable as he halted our advance into the parlor. The familiarity of the moniker made me realize how far I'd grown from my brother since our parents' deaths and how his time with the Salvatores had meant so much more than I'd ever realized. "I don't know how this happened. She was with me the whole time. We hiked up to the Falls so she could take some pictures, then I . . . I can't remember. I don't remember how I got back—I can't remember. We weren't even drinking—I mean I had a beer, but—"

I reached out to take my brother's hand, but he shoved it in the pocket of his hoodie and looked away from me. My chest burned and tears stung at my eyes. Zach Salvatore turned panicked towards the Sheriff.

"Where's my daughter, Liz!? My God, she's not—"

"No, Zach. Right now, she's missing, but we're gonna find her. There was an animal attack tonight—my daughter—she survived, and there's no reason to believe—"

His eyes widened at mention of the attack—a reasonable reaction, until they flashed in the direction of Stefan, crouched in front of the fireplace, stoking a burgeoning flame. Zach looked back at the Sheriff after the briefest of moments, and they shared a pointed moment of silence.

"What, Sheriff?" he whispers in a low voice. "No reason to believe it succeeded with my daughter where it failed with yours."

Could they know? My parents did.

I stood frozen watching the curve of Stefan's back. He'd gone as still as I had. He stopped for a moment and looked over his shoulder as if he had heard his name called, and then went back to tending the fire. When he hung up the poker and stood up, brushing his hands off on his jeans, a dead leaf fell from the hood on his back and descended with a manic twirl to the ornate rug below.

 **XXX**

"What trouble are you getting yourself into now?"

"Ahh!" I startle at the sound of a voice that is far too familiar by now. I strangle the end of my shout by clapping my hand over my mouth and then letting out a silent huff of frustration.

"Be quiet!" I whisper with force as adrenaline crawls up the back of my neck. The large suite I was peering into from the halls of the Salvatores' massive house is not quite where Stefan directed me when I asked for a powder room. I'm not even on the right level.

Still, the only thing out of place I've found behind any of its closed doors is this smug bastard.

"Why? You're the only one who can hear me."

Oh, yeah.

I glare back at his infuriating blue eyes and raised eyebrow anyway, before closing the room's door in his face with a soft touch and moving on to the next in line. He passes through the solid wood of the new door before I can reach the knob.

"What is it you're looking for, Miss On-a-Mission? There are better spots to hide a body around this place than in the linen closet." My hand halts mid-air. I stop to screw up my face in a mix of disgust and confusion.

"What?" I manage to maintain my whisper.

"A corpse—cadaver—stiff. They find your brother yet? What are you doing _here_ , Elena?" The pointed emphasis of the last question doesn't match the mocking tone of his other sarcastic remarks.

My brother? Now that I think about it, Damon hasn't been around since before Jeremy turned up at the aftermath of the bonfire. I'd been so consumed with panic and now suspicion, that I hadn't noticed.

"No—I mean yes; my brother's okay. The girl he was with—Sarah Salvatore—she's disappeared. She lives here with her dad and her cousin."

"And you think the girl's body is in the linen closet?"

"No," I snap, though it sounds ridiculous in my hushed voice. "Something's off about Stefan. I was looking for his room, but all of these are just vacant guest rooms—empty since they stopped taking boarders."

"You're looking for the emo attic room at the top of the stairs." He smiles as pleased with himself as he always seems to be, maybe a little more, and pops out of existence. My exasperated shock pulls the breath from my lungs before he reappears a minute later at the end of the hall—the staircase landing. "C'mon. This way," he calls to me, no regard for volume, of course. "He's talking to the Sheriff but not for much longer. Better hurry."

My lips are parted in an involuntary gape. My bafflement doesn't hinder me from following after him with the careless trust only he inspires.

I climb another flight of stairs with light feet and arrive at a white door with battered paint—a room nestled into the peak of one of the house's A-shaped structures.

My pause at the threshold incites Damon's impatience.

"Any day now, Nancy Drew," He calls from the other side of the barrier. "It's not like I have an eternal existence to pass or anything," He adds as I pull the door open with a swift inhale and press it closed behind my back as I exhale in the darkness on the other side. The antique iron knob squeaks as I release it.

"The switch is on the right," Damon grumbles after listening to me fumble around for it. I find it a moment later behind a coat rack covered in flannels and plaids. They're now revealed by the sconce above it and the light fixtures in the rafters of the pitched roof.

The room is larger than I expect and so cluttered I delay at the prospect of finding a reasonable place to begin. A smattering of windows in odd shapes and positions are covered in dark curtains, except for a porthole above a tall dresser. Damon is standing there, having wasted no time, nosing around the surface's occupants. He snickers at the display of tchotchkes and knick-knacks, but his hand clenches at his side, fighting the urge to reach out and touch them.

"What now?" Damon vocalizes my own thoughts in the most annoying way possible. I sidle up to one of the bookshelves and begin tracing the contents to avoid having to answer. The room is a strange mix of modern conveniences and flea market finds. There's an expensive computer and a flat screen tv alongside an analog record player, an old typewriter and stacks of books that don't look like they were printed in the last decade—or four. The only sign that a teenage boy occupies this space is the haphazard pile of dirty laundry discarded on top of the weathered trunk at the foot of an elegant—and new—king bed set.

As I chart a careful path around the room it becomes obvious to me. These things are the acquisitions of years, not months. The dread that quickens my heart makes me realize that I sneaked up here looking for renunciation of my suspicions, not confirmation. I didn't want to be right.

"I shouldn't be here," I tell Damon as I turn away from the diamond-paned French doors that lead out onto the balcony and their view of the now sinister woods beyond.

Damon looks up from the desk where I catch him tracing the chain of a necklace with a large pendant lying on top of a shallow pile of books.

"Where did Veronica Mars go? Don't you want to find out what happened to your brother's girlfriend at the expense of your safety and personal wellbeing?"

"I didn't know you cared," I half-grin and join Damon at the desk. "Hey, when did you watch Veronica Mars?" Damon shrugs, and I feel stupid for asking. I know the answer because _I_ watched Veronica Mars with devotion in Junior High. It's the first time I realize he's always been around even if I couldn't see him.

"I'm afraid to find out what happened to her, that Caroline was the lucky one—" I trail off as I rifle through a few papers on the desk. "I guess I was looking for some kind of proof, but I honestly don't know what difference it would make. Either the Sheriff will think I'm crazy or she's already less clueless than I thought."

"Proof?" Damon seems amused by this. "That Stefan's a vampire or that he's the one who attacked your friends? Because you're not likely to find the latter, and I could've told you the former." A heavy weighted, yellowing piece of paper falls from my hand back to the desk as I stare at him.

"You what? And you let me just—Why didn't you say anything?" I narrow my eyes when he doesn't answer. "How? How did you know about this room—or the linen closet and the light switch? Have you been here before?" Damon's eyes turn menacing as he stares back at me. Resentment and anger settle back into the lines of his features as if they'd never left.

"I've been a lot of places, Elena," he growls. He seems like he wants to say more; my eyes linger on his in wait, but he remains silent. I rip away from the contact and glance around the room, the image of Caroline pale and covered in blood settling at the front of my mind.

"I need to get out of here," I breathe as my throat tightens. I make towards the door, but Damon steps in front of me and my mind and body recoil from the memory of the unnerving tingling I've felt every time we've ever occupied the same space.

My eyes widen at a sound coming from below in the house—weight on the stairs and a voice calling my name. I take a step forward and make to go around Damon, even though I know I don't have to. He steps back and stands firm. Him wanting me to get caught scares me as much as the creature of the night about to discover me, I realize. It freezes me.

"He can't find me here, Damon," I plea in panic. My voice sounds small in my own ears, but it seems to burn Damon as if it were the loudest thing I said tonight. He presses his finger to his lips and applies a forceful shush.

"It's too late for that. Take this." He indicates the pendant he had observed so closely before. I furrow my brow, confused and preparing to argue. Sensing my protest, Damon closes the distance between us in a instant. It takes me a moment to realize his finger is pressed against my parted lips and his other hand disappears from my view against the side of my face. My skin buzzes with the uncomfortable sensation of nothing.

His eyes are so close to mine, but they're looking at his finger on my lips. His lashes are long—feathery and dark. They flick upwards.

"Just do it, Elena," he says, pulling back. "Trust me."

And without thinking to tell it to do so, my hand reaches out to snatch the first thing I've stolen since a tube of lip gloss with Caroline in the eighth grade.

All I can think about as I swing around toward the squeaking twist of the doorknob with it clutched in my fist is that we got caught then too.

 **XXX**

"Elena, what're you doing in here?" The tone of his voice is disappointed almost as if my offense against him hurts his feelings. A guilt trip is the last emotional weapon I'd expect to be in the arsenal of a vampire. My cheeks burn with embarrassment but the real debilitation is the fear rooting me in place.

"Uh—I let my curiosity get the better of me." I join it with a wide smile to try and pull off what I'm selling. "This house is really beautiful, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see the rest of it." He frowns at this. "I didn't mean to snoop," I hurry to add, discarding the overzealous smile to try and muster some sincerity. "I'm sorry."

He looks around the room, with a touch of confusion and sadness in his expression before looking back at me. When Stefan's gaze passes over him, I catch Damon rolling his eyes.

"Were you talking to someone? I thought I heard—" I remember Damon's sudden need for me to be quiet and connect it to some things Johnathan Gilbert wrote about the vampire's heightened senses.

He heard us. Well, me anyway.

"Just myself," I answer. "I know it's weird." There's doubt and frenzy in his green eyes. Stefan takes a step forward, and I take an instinctive back. Still at my side, my fist clenches tighter around the warming mass of metal there. My facade cracks, and I know my fear shines through.

"What are you really doing up here?" I swallow hard and find myself seeking out Damon. He watches us both unaffected. I don't kid myself into thinking there's any concern for me there. I look back at Stefan with a fixed determination to get some sort of answer.

"My brother really cares about Sarah," I say, dropping all pretense. "He doesn't deserve to lose another person that he cares about."

Stefan frowns again.

"And you think I know something about what happened to her?" His voice is hard as he advances toward me again. I take another startled step backward, this time into the sharp corner of the desk. I hiss and steady myself, pushing my hand into a soft covered book I hadn't given much of a look before.

His eyes flash toward the book I now realize must be a journal—his journal—and back up at me.

"You know," he resigns. I give my head a senseless shake. "Yes," he insists. "You do." Blood red pools in around his irises and dark veins writhe on his cheeks. I gasp despite myself. I look down at his lips in expectation but only find them fixed in a taught line.

My body is still. My eyes meet his again, the red sclera rendering them a brilliant green.

"I don't, Stefan," I whisper. He's close enough to hear me, even if he were standing across the room. "I don't know where you were tonight, or why you weren't at the party, why you answered the door in the middle of the night fully dressed and with your shoes on, why there were leaves in your hair from the woods."

"Stop, Elena," a voice grits out from beside us.

"I don't know anything about you, Stefan," I continue. "But I figure you have two options I don't have much say in—You can kill me right here—"

I ignore Damon's exasperated "Oh my god," as he drags a dramatic hand over his face.

"—Or you can let me go."

Stefan stares at me for an intense minute while I hold my breath. I can feel my heart hammering in my throat, and I'm not the only one who seems to notice. He looks at it for a moment before looking back at me, struggling with the decision. He lets out a slow breath. The red leaks out of his eyes. His human face watches me as he steps aside to let me pass.

With my eyes on the door, adrenaline floods in. The instinct to bolt makes my whole body quiver. Damon is at my side, looking at me as if I were the idiot that poked a sleeping beast with a stick.

"Don't run," he advises. I take a few measured steps towards the door. I'm near enough to my escape to hope but am halted by the vice pressing in on both my shoulders. I let out a short cry and wince. My eyes shut in preparation for the grisly manner of death I've been imagining since accepting that vampires were reality.

"Fuck," I hear Damon growl. I recognize the impotence in his voice and find myself regretting that he has to watch me die. Whether he would help me if he could or kill me himself, it seems cruel.

But it doesn't come. I'm still shaking, still alive.

"Look at me," a gentle voice coaxes. My eyes widen, filling near to burst with tears. When I meet his green eyes again, they are sorry and kind.

What does he want? Should I find comfort in the fact that he feels bad about killing me? I don't apologize to the cow before eating a hamburger. His pupils dilate with unnatural speed.

"Elena," his hold softens on my shoulders. "You've had a long night. When you walk through this door, everything you saw in this room, everything you know about vampires, about what I am, will have been a bad dream. When I see you at school tomorrow, you will be sure of two things—how sincerely I wish for your friend's swift recovery and that I am as desperate as you to find Sarah safe." His hands fall from my shoulders completely and he steps aside. There's a sad look in his eyes again. "The Sheriff is waiting for you. Good night, Elena."

The path to the door is blocked again, this time by Damon.

"Say goodnight and leave, Elena. _Don't_ cry. Not yet." He seems to harbor premature anger at the version of myself that has already disobeyed him in favor of doing something stupid. It's not quite concern, but indicates some investment in my continued respiration.

"Goodnight, Stefan."

Damon steps aside to let me exit the vampire's den as if I were ending a night with an old friend.

The other side of the door holds none of the ignorance Stefan promised. The relief it would be not to know everything dies on the vine of hope and withers to disappointment and fear.

 **Alright, so what do you think? I'm still working on Stefan and Elena's dynamic. Damon is playing things pretty close to the chest.**

 **Thanks to everyone that is still reading and to those who've just started. I'm hoping to use my vacation in two weeks and NaNo this year to pump out some more frequent updates.**

 **Is there any interest out there in twitter updates as I write? Let me know in your review. If there is, I will link my twitter account in my profile.**

 **Also, I could really benefit from having a beta that I could use as a sounding board. Any suggestions? Volunteers?**

 **I love everyone's feedback. Don't be shy.**

 **I'll do my best to be timely with another update :)**

* * *

 **Nov 1st Update: So . . . unfortunately for those of you getting alerts, this update is not a chapter. NaNoWriMo is here! And You Become has become my NaNo project. For you guys, that unfortunately means no updates for the month of November. :( Sorry. The upside is that starting in December after some editing I should have some updates for you.**

 **Anyone else doing NaNo this year? Add me as your writing buddy my NaNo username is Sleasterly**

 **For those of you interested in watching word count and story updates, listening to me grumble, or hearing my thoughts on new season 8 episodes in the meantime can follow me on twitter. I will post my account in my bio. Thanks so much to everyone sticking with me. I am determined to finish this story before the last episode airs.**

 **Wish me luck and Hang in there!**


	10. Those Who Are Dead Are Not Dead

**Alright, so here is the first fruit of my NaNoWriMo labors. I did not get all 50,000 words written this November, but I did get about halfway, so I have a fair amount of updates written ahead now. This is a short one, but it puts an end to Elena's very long day so I felt it best to end it after this scene. Plus—DE. So, enjoy. :)**

 _ **Those who are dead are not dead**_

 _They're just living in my head_

 _And since I fell for that spell_

 _I am living there as well_

— _Coldplay_

Despite Damon's rather aggravating expectation of tears, I've managed to hold onto dry eyes and an even expression since leaving the Salvatore boarding house. But even as I mount the climb to my bed, my fingers tremble as they slide up the hand rail.

I'm exhausted.

In my unfortunate case, I'm pretty sure peace is not what waits for me at the top of these stairs. A strange new concoction brews from the terror and anger in my gut when I focus too long on how I've spent the evening—provoking a vampire who may or may not have attacked one of my best friends and abducted my brother's almost girlfriend. All the while, the ghost of another vampire only I can see encouraged me to walk into and steal from said danger, for what I'm pretty sure amounts to his own amusement.

I swallow and distract myself with worrying about Jenna. Her disheveled hair and wide-eyed expression as Jeremy pushed past her in silence when she opened the door tonight reminded me of how young and sudden she became responsible for the two of us.

I hugged her with my quivering embrace, watching over her shoulder as Jeremy disappeared up to his room. I passed into the house to the kitchen where I poured a glass of water while she stepped back out onto the porch to talk with the Sheriff. After a couple of moments extended by their quiet stillness, I heard the front door close and the deadbolt engage.

"Elena?" Jenna called in a small voice.

"In here," I offered with equal reservation. She padded into the kitchen with bare feet and secured her robe by pulling it and her arms tighter around herself. She glanced at the display on the stove.

It was 1:49 a.m.—probably passed two by now.

She put her hand on the kitchen island counter and took deep breath.

"Elena, are you okay? Am I—I'm messing everything up." Her eyebrows were pressing into the middle of her forehead. She looked lost.

"I'm okay, Jenna," I lied with as much sincerity as I could muster, because I really wanted it to be the truth for her. "Jeremy will be okay, too. He's worried about Sarah," and I worried about how bad it would wreck him if they didn't find Sarah alive. A brief expression of hesitant hope crossed Jenna's defeated expression.

"He really likes her, doesn't he? The Salvatore girl?" I nodded in response but my affirmation only dashed her hope into dread as she realized the fate of the girl that pulled my brother out of his grief might plunge him back into unreachable despair. She put her forehead in her hands and shook it as her eyes glassed over with wet panic. "This is all my fault. I am screwing it up. I never should have let you go to that party. I mean, I know what goes on at those parties, but I thought—I don't know what I was thinking—"

I made a quick act of setting my glass of water down and grabbed Jenna's forearms to pull her hands away from her distraught face so I could hug her. After giving her a reassuring squeeze, I pulled back, sliding my hands back up her arms to grip hers and catch her eye.

"It's not your fault," I insisted. "We weren't drinking. You do so well with us, Aunt Jenna. None of this was your fault."

If the blame laid with anyone, it laid with me. I trusted someone who was little more than a stranger to protect me and the people I cared about because of a choice he made when I was a girl not to drain me dry of all my blood.

I steel my tired expression with anger, discarding the terror, as I open the door to my bedroom. I press the door closed behind me with a soft touch and look up, this time without jumping out of my skin, at the figure perched on the edge of my bed. His expression is hard to read, in most part because it doesn't look like he's smiling around a canary. There's a distance in his eyes until they meet mine and fill with a panicked surprise that I'm still looking at him instead of through him. Then, it's gone.

He opens his mouth, but it hangs there silent as I ignore him to step into my bathroom. The light is still on, but the door to my brother's room is closed. I flip the switch and pull my own door shut, twisting the lock.

My rage builds underneath the deep breath I take before turning back around to face him.

"What the _hell_ was that that?" I growl in my loudest whisper. One of his eyebrows jumps in amused confusion. The corner of his mouth curls and erases any of the stoic vulnerability I witnessed from before.

He shrugs.

My teeth clench and my hands curl into fists that press painful half moons from my fingernails into the soft flesh of my palms.

"You knew what he was the whole time. You knew how dangerous he was and you let me—" He stops me with the mocking raise of both his hands open in the air.

"I'm not exactly in a position to stop you from doing _anything_ , Elena." He reins in his infuriating smile.

"You knew he was a _vampire_ ," I whisper the last word even softer which only invites the return of his grin. "You should have said something sooner. You should've—" I'm stopped by a memory and my eyes widen. "That day in the cemetery when I was bleeding—there was someone else there. You warned me; you told me to run. Was that him, too? Was that Stefan?" His eyes narrow in a way that makes me almost sure of the answer.

He stands and closes some of the distance between us. I take a reflexive half-step back.

"I didn't put you in any danger you weren't already willing to risk to get your answers." The calm in his voice is insufferable.

"Answers you already had. And you knew the house; you knew where Stefan's room was. You knew him before, didn't you? Who is he to you?" Fighting the urge to shout is increasing in difficulty with every question I know he's withheld the answer to.

"You and I both know Stefan's undead status wasn't the only thing you were looking for tonight, Elena," he says without addressing any of my questions. I shake with frustration. "Besides, I saved your ass," he adds with complete conviction.

"You sav—" bursts indignant and too loud out of me before I grit my teeth together again and lower my voice. "You egged me on." I pull the heavy pendant from the pocket of my jean skirt and let it hang between us from the chain. "Is encouraging me to steal from a monster who probably wants to kill me your idea of saving me?" He looks away from me, narrowing his eyes in a harsh glare at the weight of the swinging pendulum hanging from my hand.

When his eyes meet mine again, they reflect my own fury back at me.

"Actually—" his voice is low and menacing. "You might want to take a closer look at that." I furrow my brow in confusion. Damon nods his head at the necklace, to suggest that I do so now instead of wasting time with interrogation.

I focus my vision on the pendant instead of his blue eyes as I lift my left hand to let it drop into my palm and the chain fall over the side. The oval shaped mass of what looks like antique silver is rounded on one side with a unique filigree and a small red stone set into it. The opposite side is flat so that it can lie against the wearer's chest. I roll the pendant over in my palm and pick it up again with the fingers of my right hand. There's a gap that runs around it parallel to the flat back. Damon's right; there is something. It's almost like—

I wedge both my thumbnails in the gap and pull. The back and the rounded front of the pendant pop apart and open up like a book, held together by a hidden hinge. Opening the discreet locket does not reveal a picture or even a lock of hair, but releases a pungent concentration of the floral smell I recognize so well from my dreams and memories. Tucked into the concave space of the charm, is a small cushion. I hold it up to my nose to confirm that is the source of the memorable smell.

I gag on the burnt taste my mind triggers by association and snap it closed. My face wrinkles with disgust and confusion as I look up at Damon.

"What is it?" I ask. The sound of Damon's sizzling skin in my dreams reddens my cheeks with guilt and embarrassment.

"Vervain." He says it with a finality that suggests I'm supposed to understand what he means, then sighs when I respond with a prolonged blank stare. "It's an herb," he adds. "It has supernatural properties, most notably being toxic to vampires. It also protects humans with it on or in their person from our best mind tricks." He wriggles his eyebrows at me.

"Mind tricks? You mean the _demon's thrall_ stuff my ancestor was always writing about? The hypnotism. I thought he was exaggerating—I mean I'm sure vampires are pretty persuasive all on their own without—" I trail off at another realization I wasn't prepared for.

"—Screwing with your head?" Damon fills in for me. "Now where would be the fun in that?" There's a longing in his voice that's unsettling. He catches my expression and rolls his eyes before continuing in a more serious tone. "That little trinket saved you from it tonight." He nods at my clutched fist. "That wasn't just a passively aggressive threat Stefan left you with. He meant to literally erase everything you knew about him, and it inadvertently would have erased me as well. Because of my advice, he thinks it worked."

My intense exhaustion washes over me all at once. I sway where I stand and drag my left hand over my face. I cross past Damon while he watches me with interest and lean my palms onto my bed to kick my sneakers off. I turn and sink onto the edge of the bed and observe the vervain necklace again.

"That's what happened to my brother, isn't it? Why he doesn't remember what happened to Sarah?" My voice is small and tired now. A silent gesture from him confirms what I already know. The anger from before has drained. I have to admit that Damon did play a large role in saving my butt, even if it was from a danger he should've warned me about in the first place.

Damon sits next to me on the bed, but the mattress doesn't sink under his weight like it does mine. I watch the necklace twist back and forth as it dangles from my forefinger while I lean over my knees and prop up my head with elbow and hand. I sit up and unclasp the chain of the necklace, pull it up to my neck, and clasp it again underneath my hair. Damon's brow jumps up at this.

"Be careful," he advises. "If he sees you wearing that, Stefan will recognize it. He's been hauling that thing around with him since the twenties." I turn towards him and one of those questions I've tacked onto the mental list but hasn't seemed important enough to ask swims up to the surface.

"How _old_ are you?" I ask, ignoring all my manners and another admission that he knows Stefan.

He half smirks and answers simply, "I'm dead."

"You know what I meant," I huff, frustrated. I suppose I could have asked with more tact. I pout in silence for a moment before my eyelids begin to droop. Both my hands are propping my head up now. My eyes jerk open at the sound of Damon's voice.

"Look, Elena. He may not always have the best grasp of self-control, but my brother wasn't going to eat you with the Sheriff downstairs. He's not stupid." I stare agape at him while he continues. "You were in more danger in the cemetery with an open wound and no witnesses. Stefan has a self-righteous stick up his butt when it comes to killing humans, but he slips. It's hard to convince yourself to stop when there's no consequences if you don't." He says it all as if it were passing conversation, but he purses his lips in anticipation of my reaction. My face is frozen in what probably looks like a frown.

"Brother?" I breathe. "You're a Salvatore. The eldest Salvatore boy who deserted the confederate army in 1863. You knew Jonathan Gilbert. He wrote about you—both of you." I start spouting everything I know as I realize it, because I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. I catch a flash of resentment across Damon's features. My own petulant wound flares up in my chest again and licks my pride with its flames. "Why didn't you say anything?" I demand.

Damon steps away from the bed with unnatural speed, and I pull back from the menace in his eyes when he looks at me.

"Why? So you could sharpen your pitchfork, take up daddy's torch, and tear apart the _monster_ to find out what makes him tick?" He throws my careless word back at me laced with vitriol. "I don't owe you my trust, Elena. Just because you bat your big doe eyes doesn't mean you can't turn out as monstrous as the rest of us. Why would I subject my brother to that?" He finishes confident in his indignation—a confidence that begins to waver the longer I stare back in response.

I pull my hair back from my face, breathe out and fall backwards onto the bed with my arms laid out spread-eagle and my legs still hanging over the edge. I stare up at the ceiling and try not to think about how much I miss my dad. No matter how many of his sins I acknowledge, I can't stop wishing he were still here.

"You did," I whisper to Damon.

Is he still there?

"I did what?" His defensive voice dispels that worry without much delay. I pull my legs up onto the mattress and roll on my side, curling a pillow up against my chest.

"The vervain in the shower weakened you, but my blood would have given you the strength to escape, right?" I don't wait for a reply. "You convinced yourself not to hurt me even though it meant sacrificing your freedom." My eyes close, heavy with the weight of the day. I trust this time that he hasn't left.

I don't think he can.

"A fact I'm reminded of every single day of my continued non-existence," he finally whispers with resignation and not regret in his voice.

"Why are you whispering," I whisper back with a flimsy smile.

"Go to sleep, Elena," he continues to whisper. My body screams in agreement, but it's hard to let go of control after everything that's happened today. I clutch the necklace against my chest and trace the raised embellishments with my thumb.

"Where do you go, Damon—When you're not here with me?"

"Sleep." A command for me, not an answer.

"Do you think Stefan is the one who took Sarah? Do you think he killed her?"

"No. I don't."

"But you're not sure?"

"No. I'm not."

I disrupt my even breaths with a deep extended one and exhale as I crack my eyes open. Damon's upright silhouette on the bed beside me blocks the light from my bedside lamp. It's the last thing I see before giving in and closing my eyes again.

"Stay," I breathe with the rest of my energy.

He chuckles.

"If you dream about me, I won't have a choice."

 **So the plan now that I have some written ahead is to maintain a regular update schedule and to finish this story before the last episode of the show airs in March. Right now I plan on alternating every week between writing new stuff and editing what I've written to post it, so expect a new update biweekly.**

 **For heads up on updates and other tidbits you can follow me on twitter McSamLou. The full link is in my author profile.**

 **Your guys' feedback has been so awesome. Feel free to keep it coming. I reference them frequently when I need encouragement to keep writing.**

 **One of my goals now that NaNo is over is to be a better reader and to leave more reviews for other authors, so I invite you guys if you have a story you would really like some feedback on let me know at the end of your review. I may not read all of it, but I'll give the first chapter a go and let you know what I think when I'm done. I'm open to other fandoms too, I just may not be familiar with yours, and if not I apologize.**

 **That's all the catching up on my agenda. Look back in two weeks for another update!**


	11. A Ghost That Wanders Without Rest

_Put me on a ship that is sinking_

 _On a voyage to an untamed land_

 _Take away the freedoms I wanted_

 _I understand_

 _Put me inside flesh that is dying_

 _ **A ghost that wanders without rest**_

 _Buried by desires and weakness_

 _I understand_

— _Vast_

"You know the animal control team with the big tranq guns went that way, don't you." Damon points out as I hang back from the group and start to head in the opposite direction.

I don't say anything because there are still volunteers within earshot. The Sheriff's department, animal control, and a fair amount of the county's amateur hunting retirees turned out at dawn this morning to start the search and rescue efforts for Sarah. The story is still that an animal attacked Caroline, likely a mountain lion. The optimist's hope is that Sarah was injured in a similar attack and is at present lost or stranded—but still alive—somewhere in the woods. Nobody under the pavilion where the wives of deputies organize volunteers and hand out coffee is talking about the possibility that what they'll find is a body.

I hope they're right. What's more likely, according to Damon, is that they won't find anything at all.

"Do tranquilizer darts work on vampires?" I ask once we're deeper into the woods. I'm sure they don't.

"No," Damon replies in an amused tone. "They do tend to stay shy of crowds of witnesses. So why are we headed into the woods away from the gun toters who can hear you scream?" I stop to zip up my leather jacket to shield myself from the early morning cold and try to stifle a yawn. Three hours of sleep did not help me to recover the energy I need to deal with this day.

"Right before you scared the shit out of me last night in these woods and Bonnie called to tell me what happened, I heard something out here. I didn't give it another thought until this morning when I was thinking about it. I heard a branch cracking, but it couldn't have been you, you're a ghost." Damon responds to this moniker with a brief wince of distaste.

"It could have been an _actual_ animal, though." He makes a legitimate point I choose to ignore.

"Maybe."

I urge myself faster through the woods. I'm not sure what I expect to find, but I couldn't sit through History without being sure there was nothing. Damon is quiet for a while. I watch as he dodges the trees with more grace than I'm managing even though he doesn't have to.

"Why do you do that?" spouts out because I have no fucking restraint.

Damon raises his eyebrows at me and I wince before trying to explain myself. "You could walk through them. I mean how do you—you sit on chairs and walk on floors and throw darts." I'm an idiot. My cheeks inflame at the memory of his finger pressed against my mouth, even though I couldn't feel it. He seems to delight in my mortified humiliation.

"It's pretty much a mind over matter thing." My confused frown must not inspire much confidence in my understanding because he continues, "You read Harry Potter, right?" My mouth drops open, but he doesn't pause long enough for me to find my voice. "It's like the barrier to platform nine and three-quarters—your mind is convinced a brick wall is pretty fucking solid. Most of the time my mind just defaults back to thinking I'm still alive."

I close my mouth and nod. It makes sense, but I'm thinking about my mother reading the Sorcerer's Stone to me. In the months after I discovered the vampire in the basement of my dad's office, I had a hard time sleeping. Every time I woke from dreaming about it, my mom would curl up in my too-small single bed with me and read until I fell back to sleep.

"So the dart throwing—" I continue once I notice how close Damon's been watching me.

"None of this," he indicates his body with a sweeping gesture and a smug grin, "is really here. If I want to change my clothes or play imaginary darts, it takes some focus, but I just have to trick my mind into thinking it's real. Took me a few years to figure out, and before you could see me, it was for my own amusement anyway."

"Damon?" I watch the ground below me, because I'm not sure I can get it out if I have to look at him while I ask. "When you said that I'd been calling you, what did you mean exactly?" I hear him sigh, but I still can't look up at him to see his expression.

"I don't know, it's the way it works on the other side. If someone is pulling from your end, that's usually where I end up. I can push back and ignore it if I want to, but the harder someone is thinking about me, the harder it is to ignore. I got used to not having to worry about it, and then your old man—" He stops short of some insensitive euphemism for my father's death when I look up at him with pain in my face.

"The Other Side? How long have you been there?" My voice is quiet, but his eyes get big for a moment before he answers me.

"Almost eleven years now."

I nod because it confirms my expectations. It's been almost eleven years since the unfortunate day for Damon when he first met me.

I watch the forest floor again more closely after clipping a tree with my shoulder. We're coming up on the road.

"So every time I've thought about you since the day we met—"

"It was easier to ignore after your parents convinced you I wasn't real. I pretty much went wherever I wanted the majority of the time," he replies, quick to assure me that he hasn't been a creepy stalker the last decade of my life.

The forest gives way to the road. I stop when I reach the shoulder and look back as Damon closes the distance between us.

"My dad killed you after he realized I'd found you." Freeing the words loosens a tension wound tight in my chest.

"He was so caught up with a patient, some girl with a heart condition, that he forgot to lock the door. It was too close a call for the Doc. He wasn't willing to risk it happening again." When I look at him, I catch the kindness in his eyes before he is quick to mask it with indifference. I give him his privacy and turn around to look at the woods behind us. We're already far past where I heard the disturbance last night. I should go back, but instead I swing back around and cross the empty blacktop to where the forest picks up again.

"And how do you kill a vampire?" I find myself asking. Damon runs ahead of me and turns to walk backwards a few paces in front of me.

"Isn't your car that way?" He points behind us, ignoring my question.

"The Salvatore house is this way."

"Elena," he disparages and comes to a sudden halt in front of me. I stop and meet his eyes before walking around him. "You still think Stefan had something to do with this? Is confronting him the smart thing here?" he asks as he falls in beside me.

"I know you told me, your brother is some kind of guilt-ridden pacifist vampire, but Sarah lives there too. She could've been trying to get home. It's not that much further from here."

"Something sharp and wooden to the heart always works," he says after a quiet moment. "That has to be the favorite for you humans. Then there's fire, decapitation," he pauses for a beat. "—sunlight." I wrinkle my face in confusion as my mind conjures the image of warm sunlight filtered through Stefan's sandy colored hair by the bleachers.

"What? Does Stefan use SPF undead or something?" Damon looks away and seems reluctant to answer.

"There's a witchy workaround. We knew one, a witch, back in 1864," is what he offers. I accept it because I know he's still wary of giving me weapons against his brother. I get that. I keep pushing through a copse of trees growing more dense than before. We have to be close.

"I still can't believe you lived through the Civil War." I say it without thinking much. To me, it's crazy to imagine. My mom loved history, and if it weren't for the fact that he also used to be a creature I'm pretty sure she hated, she would have flipped her shit to hear about the Civil War from someone who lived it.

That's where my head is at. Damon's dark expression makes me realize that his perspective doesn't align with mine.

"Why?" he bites. "It's not as if a bunch of racist assholes killing people over land for God and Country is an obsolete concept."

I try to think of a way to apologize, but I choke on the words and fall silent, focusing instead on the terrain of my path through the woods. The incline of the hike increases at a gradual rate the following minutes we spend walking in silence. I stop after my heart rate starts to pick up and a humiliating pant is the only way I can keep my breath.

God, I need to work out.

Hunched over against a tree and trying not to make eye contact with Damon is how I spot it.

A few trees ahead, at the base of the trunk lies a black mass of plastic and metal. A few feet away, caught on a branch growing low on another tree is a custom leather strap with _SARAH_ embroidered on it.

"Oh my god." With a sudden break of the silence I jog from my resting spot to where Sarah's camera lies. I can see broken glass now from the lens and the black plastic bulk of its body is cracked in more than one place. I reach to pick it up, but Damon stops me.

"Wait. Take off your jacket and wrap it up. You don't want to expose the film."

I pull back and shrug off my jacket. With a careful touch, I drop it over the camera and scoop the leather wrapped bundle up in my arms. I stand back up and take a couple more steep paces to grab the camera strap from the tree.

I pause with my hand wrapped around the leather because from my new vantage point I can see a few of the pitched roofs of the Salvatore mansion. Looming with a clear view of the forest, is an attic-room balcony with a pair of diamond-paned French doors. I know them, because I spent last night on the other side of them peering out into the dark forest that now swallows me.

 **XXX**

"—Discovered over five centuries ago, the comet hasn't been seen over Mystic Falls in 145 years. It will be its brightest during tomorrow's celebration, right after dusk—Are we boring you Miss Gilbert?"

At the mention of my name, I tear my gaze away from where I was staring at Stefan's empty desk in History class. Mr. Tanner gives me a disapproving look when I don't say anything and returns to his discussion of the comet.

Shit. I think I was supposed to help pass out fliers after school tomorrow for that.

It's hard to concentrate on all the things that used to matter so much more than they do now. Damon disappeared again during the trek back to my Escape after too much silent contemplation. I spent the whole hike imagining what may or may not have happened to Sarah Salvatore after her camera was discarded outside the bedroom window of a vampire. When I got back to my car, I tucked the outerwear-wrapped camera into my backpack. I made it back late to homeroom, but at least I wasn't late to History today.

All the mental preparation and layers I wore to hide the vervain locket were for nothing when the bell rang and Stefan Salvatore never made it to his seat.

Where is he?

The bell rings, and I snatch up my bag to head for the door before many of the other students have packed. I know Bonnie wants to talk to me, from the look she gave me right before class started. It was followed by several buzzes in my pocket of my cell phone that I know are text messages waiting for me, but I couldn't risk pissing off Tanner any more after the poor start of a year I've already gotten myself into.

I can catch her in between classes if she's quick.

I'm not paying attention as I step out of the classroom and into someone unexpected and familiar in the hallway.

"I'm sor—Jenna?" I pull back from my Aunt. She's wearing her copper colored hair down in soft curls and a dark blue boatneck blouse that I think was my mom's.

I furrow my brow. What's she doing here? "Hey, did you get my note?" I ask and try not to give away my guilt for sneaking away this morning and lying about where I was going.

"Yeah," she smiles. "Did you find the books you needed for your paper?" I nod in an effort not to drag the lie out any further than I have to.

"What're you doing here?" in an as unaffected tone as I can manage.

"Your teacher asked me to come in for a meeting." I narrow my eyes and look back at the rest of the class filing out of the door now before looking back at her. In addition to high school history and football, Tanner drives over to the junior high to teach a couple blocks of boys gym every day. I know, because last year Jeremy had the misfortune of being in one of them. They didn't get along, and Jer's been complaining for the past month since he found out that Tanner is his freshman homeroom supervisor.

"Don't let him give you any crap about Jeremy, okay," I tell her before giving her a hug. I spot Bonnie hugging her books, waiting in front of her locker for me a short walk down the hall. "I've gotta get to Lit class. See you tonight, Jenna."

"Oh," something dawns on her as I start to step away. "I've got that evening seminar tonight, but you guys can order pizza if you want. I'll leave money on the refrigerator."

"Okay," I call back before turning to head in Bonnie's direction.

"Hey," I smile at Bonnie as I pass her and she follows me further down the hall to my locker. I hurry to twist the combination on my locker and pull the door open with a metallic squeak. I didn't have the chance to make it to my locker before class. I push my backpack in with a more careful touch than usual and hang it from one of the hooks before grabbing my American Lit book and a spiral bound notebook. Bonnie leans in closer to me.

"Is everything okay? You never called me last night, and then I got your text this morning to head to school without you. Where were you?"

"I went back to the Falls," I answer in a low voice. "They've got a search party organized out there, but they're looking in the wrong place. I found something in the woods behind the Salvatore boarding house."

"What?" she whispers with wide eyes.

"I found her camera. It was smashed against a tree practically in their backyard."

"But how did it end up so far from the campsite? And back at her house? Did you talk to Stefan about it? Was he with the search party this morning, too?" I grab her forearm.

"No," I say with a vigorous shake of the head. "I don't know where he is, Bon. But if you see him, stay away, okay," I insist realizing how much has happened since I was last able to talk to her. "He's one of them," I tell her with pointed emphasis.

Her eyes widen even further and are tinged with fear, but the hallways are starting to thin out as the rest of the students make their way to their next class. I look around before closing the door on my locker and giving the dial a twist to reset the lock. Bonnie is quiet as we start to walk in the direction of the east wing of the school. She has Pre-Calc but her classroom is across the hall from mine. Her gaze is distant before she turns towards me.

"Do you think he's the one who hurt Caroline?" she breathes with painful worry in her brown eyes.

"I don't know," I shake my head because I don't have time to explain to her the bomb that is Stefan and Damon on top of everything. My stomach twists my worry for Sarah into guilt over Caroline. The last news I heard was over the police radio in the Sheriff's squad car last night telling her mother that Caroline was stable but would probably need a skin graft.

"Have you heard anything?" Bonnie nods.

"I was there this morning for a little bit, but it was before visiting hours so I couldn't see her. It's not good though. She had to have surgery last night, and she lost a lot of blood. I donated some before I left for school."

We stop in the middle of the hall between both of our respective classrooms. I reach down and wrap my free arm around her while burying my face in her shoulder.

"She'll be okay," I tell her as I pull away. "We'll talk more later," I promise with a weak smile.

 **Thanks, everyone for reading! Don't forget to let me know what you think. It really does keep me going :)**

 **And Happy Christmas!**

 **You probably won't hear from me again until the new year, but you might get lucky, and I might post early. Keep an eye on my twitter to find out.**


	12. If I Seem Dangerous

**Alright, so sorry this one is a week late. I was very busy with friends and family this new year. I knew this one would either be early or late, so I'm sorry for making you wait. Enjoy :)**

 _If I told you what I was,_

 _Would you turn your back on me?_

 _And **if I seem dangerous** ,_

 _Would you be scared?_

 _I get the feeling just because_

 _Everything I touch isn't dark enough_

 _That this problem lies in me_

 _I wanna hide the truth_

 _I wanna shelter you_

 _But with the beast inside_

 _There's nowhere we can hide_

 _-Imagine Dragons_

 **Are we eating on the quad?**

 **Elena?**

 **Call now or im gonna freak out!**

I read all Bonnie's successive messages as I'm climbing out of my Escape in the parking lot of Mystic Falls General. Damon reads them over my shoulder and snickers.

"At least _someone_ is trying to implement a little parental supervision in your life." I dial Bonnie and lift the phone to my ear while sticking my tongue out at him. He reappeared in my passenger seat on the drive over from the high school . It's starting to make me self-conscious to the point that I have to hide my flushed cheeks every time he does it. I never realize I'm thinking about him until he's there.

"Elena?" Bonnie picks up after two rings.

"Mrs. Evans was out of her office, so I decided to sneak out last minute and come check up on Caroline."

"Oh, okay," she says with noticeable relief in her voice. "As long as you're okay."

"I am. I'll be back by fifth period."

"Alright, Elena. Love you."

"Love you, Bon," I tell her and flip the phone closed before walking into the lobby of the hospital.

The woman at the information desk directs me to the second floor—The ICU. She won't tell me anything because I'm not family. Her stoic poker face guards whatever knowledge she has. Damon mirrors my quiet with his own respectful absence of antics. An uncomfortable dread is beginning to settle in my stomach.

Please be okay. Please be okay. I can't lose anyone else.

The chants run over and over again in my mind. I reach the nurse's station where a black woman with mint green scrubs and an asymmetrical haircut sits behind a computer.

"Can I help you, sweetheart?" she asks after I stand awkward too long without saying anything.

"Yeah," I grip the edge of the counter with both my hands. "I'm looking for Caroline Forbes—Can you tell me if she's going to be okay? I know I'm not family, but we're practically sisters and I—"

"I'm sorry," she stops me. "What's your name?"

"Elena _Gilbert_ ," I offer with a hesitant smile. As a founder I know my name has weight, especially here where my dad had hospital privileges.

"Okay, Miss Gilbert," she smiles back. "Don't worry. You're friend is going to be okay. Animal bites like hers can be tricky. Even though she's out of the woods, there's still a pretty high risk for infection. We're just keeping a close eye on her for now."

"Thanks," I breathe relieved. "Can I see her?"

"Sure," she answers as she hands me a clipboard. "Go ahead, and sign in on here." I take it from her and fill out three boxes for my name, time, and patient's name, pausing over the last one.

"What room number is she in?"

"Two fourty-seven," I fill it in the last column as she answers.

"She's resting, but you're welcome to sit with her, too. Just no more than two visitors who aren't family at a time, okay?"

I stop with the clipboard in my hand and look back down at it.

"She has another visitor?" I ask while Damon leans in over my shoulder to look at the sign in sheet.

"Looks like Baby Bro beat you here," he chimes in at the same time as the nurse—"Yes. A young man."

I trace the numbers in the last column until I spot another 247 a few up on the list. Neat handwriting declares _Stefan Salvatore_ the visitor. I manage to hand the clipboard back to the nurse with a calm hand, but panic crawls up the back of my neck.

As I start to walk down the hall to Caroline's room, Damon walks ahead of me. There must be something in my expression—which is transforming from terror to fury with every step—because he raises a critical brow.

"E- _le_ -na?" He draws out the middle syllable of my name as if to ask 'Are you sure you know what you're doing?'. "Hold up. Maybe you should come back later. Right now, Stefan thinks you're clueless about the existence of Mystic Falls' little bed bug problem." I frown at him. "You know—'sleep tight; don't let the bed bugs bite'? —But really, if you storm in there all fired up about vampires you're gonna give up the advantage I worked very cleverly to help you get." He glances down at the pendant tucked into the neckline of my layered tops. I stop and look down my chest.

I'm so sick of keeping up with all the lies and secrets.

"I'm not just going to stand by like some moonstruck idiot and let him hurt my friend," I growl at him under my breath. He rolls his eyes, and I huff back at him in frustration.

"You're being dramatic. He's not here to hurt Bedridden Barbie. He wouldn't have bothered signing in, if he were." When I realize he's right, it quells some of the fear fueling my crusade, but I can't give him the satisfaction. It hasn't changed my mind. I came to make sure that Caroline was okay, and that's what I'm going to do. I'm not going to put on an act to do it.

I pull the necklace out from under my clothes with a pointed flourish. Damon grimaces as I walk around him."Really?" he exasperates and then mutters something under his breath.

"Yes, okay. If he's not here to hurt Caroline, than he's not going to hurt me either, but Sarah is still missing. Even if he's not responsible I have some questions for him that I can't ask if I'm playing dumb." Damon throws his hands up in surrender. I turn left at the end of the hallway to another row of ICU units that surrounds the nurse's station. I can see Caroline's room number on a plaque by a window with the blinds drawn. The door is closed. I pick up my step, but Damon jumps ahead of me again.

"Alright, Velma," he says with his hands still up. "Just remember this one doesn't end with an eccentric billionaire pulling off his vampire face before you haul him off to jail. The teeth are real." He flashes me half of a shiny smile with the perfect view of a sharp and lengthened eye tooth. I nod, quiet because I know that I'm close enough for Stefan to overhear everything that I say. I move to open the door, but Damon raises a finger to add something.

"Oh, and leave me out of it," he tacks on as if it were something he forgot to write on a grocery list. I feel like an idiot frowning with more zeal than necessary to communicate the questions I can't ask out loud. I'm gonna have to work on my mime skills if this is going to become a regular occurrence.

"My brother and I have had a rocky go of it, even when one of us wasn't promising to make the other one miserable for eternity," Damon elaborates after he interprets whatever weird face I ended up making. Our eye contact lingers as he uses my imposed silence against me. We both know there's a whole glacier-sized subtext submerged underneath the the tiny iceberg his words convey. There's a dare in the surface of his sea-colored eyes that threatens titanic consequences if I try to press any further with the inquisition of my facial expressions.

"Just let it lie, Elena," Damon insists. Staring at him with my brow furrowed and my lips parted in concerned curiosity is not enough of a binding agreement for him. I roll my bottom lip under my top teeth and answer him with a distinctive inclination of my head.

He falls back behind me as I twist the steel knob and swing the heavy door open in a slow arc.

 **XXX**

Stefan's standing over a table on the far side of Caroline's bed, giving her _Cosmo_ a casual flip through. My treacherous heart starts to gallop when I see him. His head jerks up at my silent entry, and the muscle responds without my permission by battering itself against the inside of my chest.

Can Stefan hear it?

Damon stands apart from both of us, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He watches Stefan with tight lips and a pained look in his eyes. My righteous anger evaporates into vulnerable exposure. Whatever demands I had on my tongue when I marched in here, I swallow them instead.

"Elena." His eyes meet mine filled with a genuine delight. "Shouldn't you be in class?" He adds a sympathetic smile.

"It's lunch," I answer when I find my voice. I cross over to the foot of Caroline's bed and look away from him to assess at least the visible clues to her condition. "Caroline's a very close friend of mine," I say without looking back at him.

Her fair skin is pallid. There are dark purplish circles under her eyes, and a deep scratch across her left cheek. She breathes through dry parted lips—she's always been a bit of a mouth-breather. She'd be mortified if she knew Stefan were here to see her like this. My eyes and mind dwell on the swath of gauze dressing taped over her neck and part of her shoulder. Someone cleaned her golden hair and combed it to the other side.

I look back at Stefan. He's watching me close enough to make me uncomfortable. "You seem pretty sincerely interested in her recovery." My voice is hesitant as I repackage the words he used last night when he tried to erase all of this from me. Though the suggestion to me is something sinister, he seems to find relief in what I say.

"I am." The underlying sadness that's been in his every action since I've met him coats both of his words as he looks back down at Caroline. It's maddening.

"Rather unusually interested for someone who barely knows her." I raise my voice to an indignant level. Stefan's eyes dart back to mine, narrowed in scrutiny.

"It's hard waiting around for news of Sarah. I just wanted to do something useful." His smile this time is self-deprecating and reluctant.

"Like helping out with the search effort? I didn't see you out there this morning." Stefan is still. He takes a long beat, during which it is impossible to discern what he is thinking.

"I thought Caroline might've seen or heard something last night that could help. I wanted to be here to talk to her when she woke." I nod as if to accept his reasonable explanation.

"So you could convince her to forget she ever saw or heard it in the first place," I state as if it were the most logical conclusion to draw. I turn so that I face him from across the bed with Caroline's slumbering form between us and lift my hand to my neck to finger the pendant of the vervain locket.

Two things happen next that I register only moments after they've already occurred. Damon drops his arms from his chest and takes a lurching step forward. Stefan is already across the room pressing my shoulders into the wall behind me. My eyes are wide, and my breath escapes my chest. I clutch my fist hard against my breastbone, closed around the pendant. I look past the red leeching into Stefan's eyes and meet Damon's from where he stands behind him. He's as frozen as I am, his face twisted in a stricken grimace that suggests he's bracing himself for something he knows is coming but can't stop.

"You took that from my room," Stefan grits out through teeth he's applying a great effort to keep clenched. I look back at him unblinking and watch the skin over his cheekbones writhe, afraid to meet his eyes.

"Yes," is my hoarse reply. The grip on my arms loosens and then tightens again.

"Why?" he demands with a struggle in his voice.

"I—My parents knew about vampires," I tremble. I look past him at Damon again to assure him that I don't plan on giving him up. "I figured out what you were, but you caught me before I could get away. I recognized the smell of the vervain from a perfume my mother used to wear." Stefan takes a slow breath. When I look up at him again, his monstrous features are fading back into pools of green. He releases my arms and takes a step back.

The adrenaline reignites some of my reckless passion and propels me to close the distance he's freed up. "What are you really doing here? Do you know where Sarah is?" Stefan furrows his brow into a wounded brood, but his vampire features don't return.

"You still think I'm responsible," he resigns in a disappointed tone.

Damn. How am I supposed to tell if this is real? My eyes find Damon again, as if he might provide some sort of gauge to go by, but he's looking at me and not his brother. His expression is too perplexing to read in the second I catch before looking away again. The intensity startles the already rapid but otherwise regular rhythm of my heartbeat. The flick of Stefan's eyes to my throat and the curious expression that follows convinces me that he can in fact hear it.

This is crazy.

"You didn't exactly put a mark for yourself in the innocent column last night." The delay in my reply allows doubt to strangle the previous passion in my voice.

"You shouldn't be involved in any of this, Elena," Stefan says with regret as he steps away and turns to observe Caroline. "Knowing what you know is dangerous for any human who knows it."

"That wasn't a denial," I'm quick to point out. "It sounded more like a threat." Damon falls in beside me without a word but a look that is clear when it warns me to back off.

"It wasn't a threat. I was trying to protect your safety with ignorance. I didn't want you catching the attention of whoever took Sarah." He looks back at me with a pleading expression.

"So someone else took Sarah, and you have no idea who that is? A vampire?"

"Yes."

I narrow my eyes.

"Why? Why attack Caroline and leave her for dead, but take Sarah?" Stefan's face twists into a guilty grimace when I ask this.

"Because they didn't attack Caroline." He pauses and considers my reaction before adding, "I did." I stumble backwards away from him. The instinct to run is harder to ignore than it has been until this point. Stefan puts a hand out towards me. "I didn't mean to hurt her, Elena. It was just poor timing. I haven't drunk live in years, but I was in the woods on my way to the bonfire, and she just came stumbling from the direction of the party. She was bleeding." His voice lowers on the last sentence before falling silent.

The quiet spreads out around us as I look away from him and step up to the side of the hospital bed. After an extended moment, Damon speaks for the first time since entering this room.

"He's telling the truth," he declares as if he were the voice of the gut so many people insist you should listen to.

Something else occurs to me as I stare at the bandage on my friend's previously unmarred collar. I twist my head back to look at Stefan who seems poised to accept a punishment or chastisement. As if I could deliver any such thing.

"Will she be like you? Is she going to—"

"No," Stefan is quick to answer my question as if it is one he prefers to be answering. "She would have to drink vampire blood herself and then die with it still in her system." I breathe out my panic and face him head on again.

"How do you know it was a vampire?"

"What?" His relief at my previous line of questioning evaporates.

"That took Sarah. If you attacked Caroline but not Sarah, how do you know it was a vampire at all?"

"Your brother was most certainly compelled," he confirms what I had already suspected. The gap I leave without a question to fill it invites what seems to be his own nervous guilt to complete the void. "I did come here to find out what Caroline remembers, but that's not all I could do—"he extends his timid offer. "I could give her my blood and heal her injuries." My eyes widen as I meet his.

"What?" I breathe. "I thought you said that was how—"

"Only if she were to die. My blood would heal her and leave her system before she checked out of the hospital. She would be safe." I look to Damon for confirmation. He seems a bit annoyed at Stefan for offering but nods when he meets the question in my eyes.

"I wouldn't recommend it," Damon chimes. Despite my best mime-face attempt to press him for more, he doesn't elaborate. When I look back at Stefan, he watches me, perplexed.

"No," I say with a regretful glance in Caroline's direction. She won't be happy about the scar, but she will live. "Caroline's mom is Sheriff. I'm almost completely sure she knows about vampires, and she might not be the only one." Stefan nods unsurprised at my revelation.

"Founding families. Their nineteenth century predecessors passed down what they knew in journals and occurrences in the past have kept the Council active."

"Occurrences like this one. Why offer and risk further exposure?" There's self-imposed pain in Stefan's expression. I realize that I've already decided to keep his secret. It's a decision fueled by my own debilitating shame, because I can't be responsible for what happened to Damon happening again. Not because of me.

"Your friend didn't deserve what I did to her," Stefan answers with a heavy remorse that seems to predate Caroline's condition by many years.

"Then help me find Sarah," I tell him.

"I want that more than anything. Sarah is half of the only family I have left." And now more than ever the pieces of Stefan Salvatore begin to fit together into a person I can understand.

I search for him, but Damon's gone.

Caroline begins to stir in her bed and a wave of nausea makes me dread what I have to allow to happen. I tell myself it's to keep her safe—that it's worth it—and I hope that my justifications align more with the pain of an inoculation than the prolonged imprisonment and torture of an indestructible man.

"I found something I think could help," I tell Stefan who looks away from Caroline and back to me. "In the woods. You can find me later." His brow furrows in curiosity. Caroline groans and shifts in her sleep. "Do what you have to do." I nod in her direction.

I flee the room before Caroline can wake and see me there.

 **XXX**

I pull the door of my Escape closed, rest my head back against the seat with my eyes closed, and exhale.

"Get what you wanted, Anne Rice?" Damon asks from the passenger seat beside me. I ignore him and ask my own question instead.

"Damon? Why did you think Stefan wasn't the one who attacked Caroline? What made you so sure?" After a prolonged moment of emptiness I open my eyes and turn my head in his direction. His lips are pursed in discomfort. The answer is one that's clear to him, but he's struggling with telling me. I search his eyes and wait.

"My brother's spent his existence fighting very hard to stay on the righteous wagon because when he falls off, he falls hard. I didn't think he could be the one who attacked Blondie because when you found her, her heart was still beating and all of her . . . pieces were still intact."

God. Caroline.

I look away from him and stare out of the windshield ahead of me.

"And you? What were you like before?" It hangs in the air between us. I can't look at him.

"I was a vampire. I didn't try not to be." His voice is hard. "I haven't been a man for a _very_ long time, Elena. And I never said anything about being a good one."

 **So, the plot thickens. Stefan attacked Caroline, but Stefan and Elena have come to a tentative truce. Let me know your thoughts on the developing dynamics between our three MC's.**

 **Also you may have noticed that with the exception of the first chapter, all of my chapter titles are inspired by the lyric excerpts I include at the beginning of each chapter. Music had a big part in inspiring me to write this story, so if you're interested I have made a spotify playlist including all the chapter title songs that I will update along with the story. It can be found on spotify and is called You Become: A Delena Fanfiction Soundtrack. Like my story, my playlist is sort of an alternate playlist inspired by the show. Some songs are from the show but with new contexts, some songs are new but from some of the same artists that have serenaded iconic moments and key characters from the show, and some songs are totally new. All of them reference the themes of the show and my story specifically.**

 **While this story will remain from Elena's POV, the song lyrics are my guilty pleasure and allow insights from different characters perspectives. This story bloomed from the first two songs where What the Water Gave Me was Elena's POV and Sort Of was Damon's POV. So far those two and Stefan are the only ones to chime in, but other characters will probably make appearances as we go. This chapter is an Imagine Dragons mashup for the Salvatore brothers where the Monster lyrics are Stefan and the Demons lyrics are Damon.**

 **Review and let me know what you think of the story and its soundtrack. Drop your song suggestions or recommendations. Favorites from the show that you think fit the characters in this story or your own personal favorites that you think would be perfect for TVD. I have a running list that I pull from when I edit new chapters, but I'm always looking to add to it.**

 **Happy New Year!**


	13. Unseen

**Meant to get this done last night but got distracted by the new episode. Thanks to everyone for their awesome reviews and all the people reading, favoriting, and following, I see you too :) This chapter is a bit of a bridge to other things, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.**

 _I've been watching your world from afar_

 _I've been trying to be where you are_

 _And I've been secretly falling apart_

 _ **Unseen**_

 _-Aqualung_

I'm the first one in my seat for history this morning, a full three minutes before the late bell rings. Bonnie isn't far behind; she comes in behind a few others with her history book clutched to her chest and a messenger bag slung over her petite shoulder. She smiles at me, a hopeful reassuring smile, and I try to reciprocate. She sits in her seat and leans across the aisle to say something as Tanner arrives. I raise my eyebrows in warning, and she pulls back.

I'm not rocking the boat—not after yesterday.

After visiting Caroline in the hospital during lunch, the rest of my day at school was spent in contemplation of the fact that there were not one but two vampires (and the ghost of one) in Mystic Falls, and I was considering the help of the one who had maimed my friend to find the other. It didn't leave much room for French conjugations or balancing chemical reaction equations.

My anxiety over the supernatural world has interwoven itself with the rest of my world and makes it hard to prioritize those things that used to make up my life with the same weight. It's so much easier to let those things fall through the gaps in a sieve that used to catch things like getting good grades in class, picking out shoes to match my homecoming gown, or nailing down a cheerleading routine to Caroline's standards.

Others are noticing too. That's why when I came home from an afternoon of manic daydreams and poor focus, Jenna was waiting for me.

I closed the front door behind me and paused in the entryway with my backpack containing Schroedinger's camera held against my chest. Damon had been absent since my questions in the parking lot of the hospital.

"Jenna?" I called at a hesitant volume, because I'd seen her Mini-Coop outside on the street, but I'd thought she was supposed to be at a class.

"In here," she responded from the direction of the kitchen. I set my bag down at the foot of the stairs and joined her at the kitchen island. I leaned over onto my elbows, and watched as Jenna gave a stack of takeout menus very careful attention.

"Hey, what happened to your seminar?" I asked with a casual smile.

"Oh, I skipped it to spend time with my niece who's teacher called me in today to tell me she's on drugs. Hey, what do you think about tacos? I could eat a gallon of guacamole when I used to get high in undergrad." She looked up from the menu while my mouth fell open.

"Tanner told you I was on drugs?" I asked with disbelief.

"He did suggest it as an explanation for why you've been late or skipped classes every day—that you've been distracted and getting into fights?" The question was there in her voice and in her eyes as she waited with the benefit of the doubt still leaning in my favor. There was doubt.

I wrinkled my brow in a dubious frown.

"I have been distracted, and Tanner's material isn't exactly riveting. It's been harder to readjust than I thought it would be." I looked down while pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. Jenna was quiet. I looked her in the eye again. "I'm not on drugs, Jenna," I insisted with a small smile and a shake of the head. She nodded but a small uncertainty lingered in the silence between us.

"So, you're getting in bar fights with Vicki Donovan, now?" she chuckled as she said it. My cheeks flushed, and I dragged a hand down my face before propping my chin up in my open palm.

"She wanted me to back off of Matt, and I have. She was just looking out for him. Somebody should." I sighed. Jenna flashed me a sympathetic smile and crossed to my side of the island. She put an arm around my waist.

"Don't let anyone keep you from your friends, Elena. You need all of them right now." She gave me a squeeze and walked over to grab the cordless from it's cradle. "C'mon," she beckoned to the living room. "I'm gonna order fiesta nachos with double cheese and guac. We can catch up on all that Top Model you have DVRed."

I followed behind her with a short glance at my bag nestled at the foot of the stairs.

It wasn't the third degree I would have gotten for cutting class and getting in a fight if my parents were the ones on the other side of the discussion, but Jenna's concern was troubling. I hadn't given enough regard to what any of this appeared like to the other people in my life that cared for me. I had been so sure that my outward grief had been under control, that I could hide how affected I was by the things spinning out of control around me.

It's pretty imperative that I figure out how to keep a tight lid on this, because so much more is at stake now. So, I'm sitting at attention in my desk while preparing to convince Tanner that his dull lecture on civil war politics can capture more of my attention than a vampire-abducted girl's broken and discarded camera.

Stefan comes in right before the bell and sits in one of the only desks left, two rows over. I spend the rest of the period avoiding meeting his eyes, but I can feel them on me with an unsettling frequency. Anytime I risk looking over at Bonnie, she's looking between the two of us with strained worry. I managed to call her last night and let her in on our tentative truce, but she's preparing for the same shoe to drop that I am.

She has no idea how to attempt to develop what might be salvageable of Sarah's film either. Maybe, I should hand it over to the Sheriff. If she does know about the vampires in Mystic Falls maybe it's best for me to bow out of it.

"Miss Gilbert?"

Damn.

Tanner is staring at me with expectant judgment. The rest of the class is quiet. I look around and make contact with Matt's sympathetic eyes and Tyler Lockwood's amused sneer.

"Did you get that, Miss Gilbert?" he gestures to the homework assignment he's written up on the chalkboard.

"Oh. Yeah, I got it," I nod after too long of a delay to be very convincing. Tanner continues to stare at me with raised brows, waiting for something besides my generic confirmation.

"You think you might want to jot it down somewhere?" he adds after I do not respond in a manner he finds adequate.

"Of course, yeah." I hurry to pick up my pen and scribble the assignment under the day's notes. All I managed was two short lines about the Battle of Fort Sumter. His satisfaction seems only mild, but he sets me free from his specific attention to addresses the class again as a whole. I don't catch any of it, instead glance at the clock and begin packing up my things.

A punctual bell sounds throughout the room and the halls outside. I'm the first one up from my seat and out of the room.

Well, that could've gone better.

"Elena." Someone is at my side faster than I imagined anyone could be. I startle before I realize who it is, and when I do, it doesn't help the stirring of my adrenaline to calm.

"Now's not really the best time, Stefan," I tell him before quickening my pace.

"No. I know." He makes a show of hustling to catch up to me, but I know it requires no effort on his part to keep or overtake my brisk pace. "I wanted to give you something." I come to a sudden stop. It takes Stefan a moment to stop in kind before he has to backtrack a few steps to meet me again. He pulls something out of his bag and extends it to me.

I narrow my eyes at him and angle my them downward to observe the book he holds out for me. It's old—very old. Embossed in gold leaf on the hard cover of a linen-wrapped binding, a serif font declares the book _Wuthering Heights_ by Ellis Bell _._ I've never seen a physical copy printed in her pen name. I can still hardly believe that she had to write under a man's name. My hand comes forward, propelled by instinct not to question such a generous and personal gift.

I stop it halfway there.

I know enough about books to know that this is a very old edition and probably very valuable. Another hesitation concerns me more.

"How did you—"

"I saw you hiding a copy in your French textbook on Tuesday. Go ahead. There are shelves full of books at the mansion no one's bothered to touch in years." I shake my head and drop my still suspended hand.

"I can't take this," I insist.

"It's okay," he smiles. "With everything that's happened, you should take some enjoyment from the things that comfort you." I lock curious eyes with his and take the book in my reluctant grasp. I observe it while resuming my walk to class. Stefan falls in next to me on our way to the English class we both share. The unease from before has lessened.

"Stefan," I start in a calm voice. "Do you believe in ghosts?" I ask. An instant pang of guilt follows, because I can't help but think of Damon. I wait for him to pop out somewhere, but he doesn't show. Stefan and I both stop quiet in front of the door to our classroom. Stefan's expression is surprised by my question but doesn't ridicule its absurdity.

"I'm not really the one to ask," he responds after some reflection. "Most of my existence has been spent in a state of prolonged unnatural life, subsisting on the sacrifices of others to survive. If there is an afterlife, there's not much likelihood that it would favor me. I try to focus on redemption in my life here instead."

I open my mouth. There's a sentiment I promised his brother I wouldn't divulge poised on my tongue. But perhaps Damon is right; perhaps it would cause more pain than solace.

"Hey you guys," Bonnie addresses us both after catching up and postpones my struggle. She looks at me when she asks, "Everything good here?" with a flare of her eyes.

"Yeah," I assure her with a smile. "See you at lunch?"

"Definitely." She crosses the hall with a hesitant step, glancing back at us over her shoulder until she reaches her classroom. I give her a short wave and walk into Mrs. Covington's room.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor next to my usual desk, Damon is propped up with both of his arms extended to the ground behind him.

"Miss me already?" He groans as I take my seat and bite my lip against the birth of a grin I know I'll regret the moment it's set free.

 **XXX**

I discard the plastic clamshell from my salad on the grass next to me and lean back against the trunk of the tree. It's a warm day, and we opted for the shade tree on the quad closest to the picnic table Caroline had staked out earlier in the week. Bonnie's messenger bag and my books for my afternoon classes are spread across the top to give it the semblance of being occupied to any transient Juniors who haven't already established their lunching territory.

Damon is perched a few feet above Bonnie and me in the crook where the trunk of the tree forks in two. He's been hanging around since third period. I'm going to have to convince him to be my cheat sheet when it comes time for exams. At this point, I'm sure he knows the material better than I do.

When I look at Bonnie sitting with her legs crossed in front of me, there's a distant look in her eyes.

"Bon, you okay?" She blinks and refocuses her eyes on me. She wrinkles her nose, deciding on something before she speaks.

"Yeah, is Damon still here?" she leans in closer to ask. I roll my eyes and offer her a small smile.

"He never leaves," I complain loud enough for him to hear, emphasizing it with the momentary widening of my eyes. Bonnie is quiet. "But hey, I can make him leave if it bothers you." I offer after a prolonged silence. Damon's black motorcycle boot comes away from where it's pressed against the bark of the tree. He jumps down beside me with a defiant and curious eyebrow cocked an inch above the other.

"You can try and fail," he asserts. "I'm not going to be dragged through eleventh grade economics and an old woman's very ambitious attempt to make the _Scarlet Letter_ less interesting so you can ditch me when something might get scintillating around here."

Bonnie watches my reaction to him and presses me with insistent eyes to divulge the half of conversation she's not privy to.

"He's here," I assure her. "Why? What's up?"

"I want you to ask him something for me." I furrow my brow, and look at Damon. He grins lopsided and shrugs.

"He's listening," I tell her. She nods with her lips pressed in a thin grim line.

"You know how when I told you I felt like I was being haunted, and you told me about him that night. He's not—" she pauses and narrows her eyes, "He's not still doing that is he?" My face twists in disbelief and hardens with the beginnings of outrage when I turn to Damon for the answer.

"You're not seriously stalking her?"

His eyes widen in surprise at the accusation.

"No." I raise my eyebrows in skepticism. "No," he asserts. "Relax, okay. That was only when I was looking for an alternative afterlife liaison to the daughter of the man who killed me. I was following her because I thought I might be able to use her connection to contact a witch on the Other Side I knew back in the day."

"A witch? You've seen more dead people on the Other Side?" A brief hope rises up that I hadn't thought to kindle, but I push it aside and try to bury it. "Why would Bonnie be able to help you find this person?"

"I gather that there are others, but I've only ever run into a witch or two since I _died_ died. They have free range of the place, which leads me to believe they're probably the reason it exists to begin with. I thought Bonnie could help me contact her, because the witch I was trying to find is Emily Bennett." I shake my head in unfamiliarity.

"Emily Bennett?" I repeat. Before I can get further explanation, Bonnie—whose been watching our one sided exchange in quiet attention—grabs my arm with wide eyes.

"What is he saying?" she demands. I look back and forth between them in cautious bewilderment.

"Damon knew her," I start hesitant and slow. "She's dead—a witch he was trying to contact through you. Who is she?"

"My ancestor," Bonnie breathes in reply. She pulls a large amber colored stone pendant from underneath her neckline. "This was hers—a talisman. I've been using it to focus my magic when I practice with my Grams." She admits the last with downward cast eyes. I'm struck with surprise and a small twinge of hurt.

"You've been practicing? Why didn't you say anything?" Bonnie offers an apologetic grimace.

"It's still weird to me. I feel crazy."

"You feel crazy?" I challenge her, indicating the turn my life has taken in the last four months.

I've lost track of Damon for a moment, but when I look back at him, his eyes are fixed on Bonnie's shirtfront where the crystal rests. His expression is a fierce mix of powerless desire and anger. I frown at him.

"Damon?" I press when he doesn't meet my eyes. He turns reluctant from Bonnie's chest to face me. "Did you contact her? Emily?"

"No," he laments after a moment taken to readjust his manner. "Look, all I did was hang around for a few days and try and get Emily's attention. After the crows didn't work, I gave up and came running back to you." My heart jumps at the memory of a dark bird flying into our windshield on the first day of school. I ignore the sting of his inference that I was his last resort.

"Crows? That was you? How?"

"One of those lesser known vampire tricks. It takes a lot of power when you're a vampire and took a lot of years for me to master. Now that I'm stuck here, I think it's actually become easier. Subtle influence, not as strong as compulsion." I brush aside another astonishing piece of vampire mechanics.

"What message were the crows supposed to send?" I ask.

"An old nursery rhyme about counting crows, Emily used to sing to her children. I started with one for sorrow in Little Witch's windshield, then thirteen—a combination of four and nine for birth and hell aka purgatory and then I got desperate and tried twenty-four— 'four and twenty blackbirds baked into a pie'—" He sing-songs the last bit. I raise an eyebrow at him and then drag my line of sight back to Bonnie to explain.

"He says it was only for those few days. The weird Hitchcock vibes were him, but other than that—" I stop and trail off. By the look of her, this is not what Bonnie wants to hear. None of her anxiety seems to have lifted.

"Oh, okay," she tells me after realizing my pause. "Tell him thanks for me." Her eyes dart around for a moment looking for him before realizing the futility.

Damon snorts his amusement.

"Pretty generous for a witch." He leans in close to my ear with a smirk. "I think she likes me." I fight against the urge to roll my eyes.

"Bonnie. Is there something else. Are you still being haunted?" She smiles and shakes her head.

"No, it's nothing. Just dreams and stuff, you know. Grams says its normal. It can be overwhelming sometimes."

I nod and try to accept her answer with a supportive smile, making my doubts and frets my own silent companion.

"Too bad she hasn't gotten to the convincing lying chapter of an Idiot's Guide to Spellcasting."

If only my other constant companion were as silent.

 **XXX**

I turn to Bonnie as we walk across the quad a few minutes before the end of lunch.

"Hey, I'll meet you at your car after last period, okay? We can head over to the hospital." She smiles her assent, and I break off from her, hurrying after a task I wish wasn't necessary. The wavy brown hair of my target falls to the middle of her back. When I come up on her from the side, I can see a silver hoop earring bobbing out from the feathered bangs that frame her face.

"Vicki!" I shout to get her attention, adding an upbeat rise to the second syllable. I smile as nonthreatening a smile I can muster when she turns to seek out the source of the beckon. After a second for recognition, her face narrows to a sneering glare. Guess it didn't work.

Rise above it. Rise above it.

If I punch Vicki Donovan in the nose on the quad, it's not going to help me convince Coach Tanner, Jenna or anyone else that I'm stable or well-adjusted.

"What is it you want, Gilbert?" she bites before continuing to walk in the direction of the Stoner Pit. It's an old loading dock at the back of what used to be the cafeteria before some of the newer buildings were added and the lunch room relocated.

"I wanted to apologize?" I blurt out and have to stumble to stop when she does. She faces me with a skeptic brow raised above the other and her arms crossed over the low neckline of her gray blouse.

"This should be good," She drawls. "What does the orphan princess of Mystic Falls have to apologize to me for?" I dig my hand into my pocket so I won't be tempted to turn it into a fist and smile tight over my clenched teeth. I'm taller than Vicki, but the obnoxious heeled boots she wears puts her at eye level with me in my sneakers.

"You were right," I tell her, but she continues to stare at me with bored annoyance. I wrinkle my brow before clarifying, "About Matt. I was leading him on, but I told him he should move on—" I stop because the reaction it elicits from Vicki is not the one I expected. She stares at me, and then rolls her eyes, uninterested.

"Do what you want, Elena," she scoffs. "I don't really care." She turns away and starts back toward her destination.

I should let it go. The plan was to make peace, to assuage some of the negative attention. I suppose indifference is peace enough, but I don't understand. Matt is more important to his sister than anything. I follow after her, confused.

"You cared enough three days ago to attack me in the ladies' room of the Grille." It's too hard to maintain any sincere contrition in my voice. It falls away for a more demanding tone. It's become a recent habit of mine to abandon peace at the first sign my ravenous curiosity won't be satisfied.

"Whatever." Vicki dismisses me with the wave of a hand.

No satisfaction there. She walks off while I'm struck standing still, watching her go in shock.

 _What the hell?_

 **Let me know what you think! I know you all are very patiently waiting for Delena feels. It will come. It will come. They have a few physical and mental overcome to survive first.**


	14. Bitter Over Someone

**Here's and update :) Lyrics this time from Daughter's Youth which just seemed to fit so many aspects of this chapter, so give it a listen. Thanks so much for all the wonderful feedback. I appreciate it so much. Enjoy!**

 _Shadows settle on the place, that you left_

 _Our minds are troubled by the emptiness_

 _And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones_

 _'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs_

 _And if you're still bleeding, you're the lucky ones_

 _'Cause most of our feelings—they are dead and they are gone_

 _And if you're in love, you are the lucky one_

 _'Cause most of us are **bitter over someone**_

– _Daughter_

"How's Caroline?" I turn away from the bulletin board in the town square at the sound of Stefan's voice. There's multiple fliers with Sarah's face under large block letters declaring her 'MISSING'. They're tacked over top of the usual announcements for town events, a poster about the comet, and various torn take-one advertisements for guitar lessons and sublets. I pull my eyes from them and face Stefan. He stands reluctant with his hands in his pockets as if he's still unsure whether or not approaching me was a good idea.

"Back to her old self, mostly," I tell him with an encouraging smile. The idea of him as the beast who tore out my friend's throat is still so hard for me to reconcile. Instead, Stefan inspires a need in me to ease his guilt every time I look at him and all of his solemn gentleness. "We had a bit of a fight that night before she ran off into the woods, so there was lots of hugging and making up." I won't say my own desire for forgiveness for the neglect I've shown Caroline and many others has nothing to do with it.

"I'm glad." He smiles in return. "You're lucky to have one another," he adds with a wistful note before looking up at the repeating copies of Sarah's nervous black and white smiles with longing.

"Any news?" I ask. The excited buzz of people and vendors all around the square fills the contrasting silence between us. The weight of Sarah's camera in my backpack seems to grow. I've carried it everywhere, but I haven't opened it since I first placed it inside and zipped it up with a ginger touch.

Stefan frowns and shakes his head. The pang of regret in my chest seals the reluctant trust I have to admit I've already given him.

"I might be able to help." Stefan raises an eyebrow in my direction. "I have Sarah's camera. I found it in the woods, smashed against a tree outside of your bedroom window."

Stefan's green eyes widen enough for me to see the hope that dances there.

 **XXX**

I trace a fingertip along the leather and linen spines of the books that choke the floor-to-ceiling shelves in this room—the library—and stroke away a thick layer of evidence that indicates their unfulfilled purpose.

"Uggh, filthy," Damon scoffs from behind me as I rub the dust away on the front of my shirt.

I'm not entirely sure what he's doing here—by which I mean, I didn't _call_ him. I don't think I did. I've been focused on Caroline. After waiting with Stefan in his family's library for his Uncle Zach to join us, I can say that Damon hasn't crossed my mind for a few hours—a considerable span of time for me.

Don't react. I have to ignore him, and he knows it.

"I don't think that's the best idea," Stefan replies after a lengthy pause in response to my previous suggestion that he should join our high school football team based on the feat of skill I witnessed him display at lunch on Tuesday. I turn away from the books and lean against an intricate wooden railing. It separates the raised platform that allows access to the books from the reading lounge sunk into the middle of the room. I watch as he crosses from one of the overstuffed leather armchairs to a bar set up on the sideboard behind the sofa. He tilts one of the varied crystal decanters back to examine its contents before pulling out the stopper to smell it.

"They could use you," I persist with a smile. Damon snorts at this as he walks around the room along the shelves. Ignore him. "Our team sucks."

"Aren't you a cheerleader?" Stefan questions with a curious grin and pours himself two fingers of amber liquid into a cut crystal tumbler. I push a piece of hair behind my ear.

"If Caroline doesn't boot me. I've let a lot of things slide since this summer, but it's more fun to cheer for a team that wins occasionally. You ever played before?"

"A long time ago." An answer, considering his relative age, that could mean a lot of things. He doesn't seem intent on sharing much more. I scowl.

"Didn't care for it?" I ask, avoiding his indication that he'd rather talk about something else. My curiosity is selfish and unsatisfied.

Something akin to nostalgia flashes across Stefan's face, both pleasant and pained. Many of his expressions seem to share the same warring duality.

"I loved it, actually." He stops to reflect on something before shooting the contents of his glass to the back of his throat. I watch him with a close eye as he sets the empty vessel back on the sideboard, before he continues, "My brother—" He takes a beat before starting again. "He learned the game from a friend of his in the Confederate Army when football was starting out as an organized sport. He taught it to me the last time he came home on leave before he deserted the war."

My lips part; my breath leaves me. Damon stops with his back turned to me where he had been perusing the titles in a relaxed state of casual disinterest. He's gone still. I wish I could see his face, though I'm sure it would be as easy to discern what he is thinking from the front of his head as it is the back.

I turn back to Stefan. I understand now. I didn't call Damon here.

His brother did.

"Brother?" I press with careful attention to dark and frozen figure occupying the fringes of my vision.

Stefan pours himself another drink, taking a more restrained sip before he meets my eyes again.

"Damon." The name fills the room around us. Hearing the name on someone else's tongue erects the short hairs on the back of my neck. "He was quite a bit older than me, but we were pretty inseparable growing up, especially after our mother died when I was ten. At least until Katherine—" a deep regret thickens Stefan's voice to the point that it chokes any further words, but I'm more concerned with the reaction the Bronte-esque name elicits from Damon. The hand that had been pressed against a shelf above his head is clenched white-knuckled at his side. His head is turned enough over his shoulder that I can see the muscles in the left side of his jaw twitch.

When I look back down into the lounge, Stefan is watching me with an intensity I can't read.

"Who's Katherine?" I ask without the will to restrain myself.

"She's the vampire that turned us. Damon loved her. She convinced me that I loved her, and it came between us; she manipulated us both. We were too busy competing against one another to realize the only one Katherine loved was Katherine."

Damon's posture is strained. The edges of his form blur as if his whole body is trembling too fast for my eyes to track. For a moment, I can see through his semitransparent middle to the books beyond—meeting the expectations of a more traditional ghost than he ever has. He growls in frustration before solidifying and stomping from sight into the adjacent room.

"She turned you both? What happened to him—your brother?"

Another tumbler's worth of alcohol disappears with a thick swallow.

"He's dead."

Crystal clinks against crystal as the lip of the decanter tilts over the lip of the glass and empties its belly of the remaining liquid.

 **XXX**

"Stefan?" A voice echoes from elsewhere in the house—it's difficult to even pinpoint from which direction. I jump up from my seat on one of the overstuffed armchairs in front of the fire.

I think there must be a fireplace in every room here. At the very least, it must give Stefan something to do with his hands. He's been poking at it since our mutual silence set in. There's already a buildup of ashes on the hearth that has yet to be swept away.

I notice Damon has gone—not just to the next room—when the first flames begin to crack and roar under Stefan's ministrations. I've been trying not to think about him or the horrible expression he wore before he managed to leave. I still can't quite pinpoint if it was pain or anger. I know he doesn't want to be here, and I don't want to be responsible for calling him back.

Shit. I'm thinking about him again.

"Stefan, what's so urgent? I really need to get back to the—" I pinpoint the location of the voice only in time to spin and greet Zach Salvatore as he enters from the hallway onto one of the raised platforms that accesses all of the books. He stops short when he sees me. He looks to Stefan who has just stood from his crouching position in front of the fireplace to hang the iron back on its ornate rack. Stefan turns around in a more dignified and less eager fashion than me. Zach furrows his eyebrows at Stefan before looking back to me with a tired but kind smile.

"Elena Gilbert," he acknowledges me with warmth, if not some confusion. I grab my bag by the handle from where I set it on the sofa and stumble forward to meet him, stopping short of the few stairs required to step up out of the lounge. He steps down to the second stair with the railing between us.

"Mr. Salvatore." I'm addressing the graying descendant of someone who wears hooded shirts and spikes his hair with gel—a gorgeous forever teenager from a teenage century that sits next to me in lit class. This is so weird. I grimace trying to remember what I was saying. Zach Salvatore gives me a patient and curious smile.

"Please, call me Zach," he insists before stepping down the final two steps. "If this is about Jeremy—"

I shove the backpack out in front of me, suspending it in the space between us.

"I found your daughter's camera, Mr. Sa—Zach. I think it could help you find the vampire that took her." His eyes widen and look past me to Stefan as he comes forward to join us. A silent conversation passes between them in which Zach's narrowed eyes seem to ask him if he knows what he's doing. Stefan's shrug of the shoulders replies 'No. No, I don't' in striking resemblance to his brother.

Zach looks back at me with a raised brow. My extended arm strains under the weight of the backpack still clutched white-knuckled in front of him.

"I see," he says, reaching out to accept my offering. The words seem too small for everything that they acknowledge, but when the bag passes from me to him a pressure lifts from my chest. I pull in a deep breath, not realizing until I do how much I was suffocating under it all.

I'm not alone with this.

"Wait," I shout too loud as Zach begins to tug at the zipper. He stops to look at me in alarm, and I blush at my awkward overreaction. "The camera is damaged. If light gets in it could ruin the film," I repeat the same advice Damon gave me in the woods where I found it. "Right?" I add a moment later. I don't want anyone thinking I'm any sort authority on photography. "I wrapped it in my jacket," another awkward extension, because I'm too nervous to shut up.

Zach nods in an effort to relieve my anxious rambling. Each Salvatore I meet is less loquacious than the last.

"Right." He smiles when he sees nonverbal gestures are not going to be enough to reassure me. "That was smart thinking." He ensures the zipper is closed and takes a firm grasp of one of the straps. "Sarah's darkroom is upstairs. We can take a look." He gestures back up the stairs. I'm fixed where I stand.

"You want me to come with you?" I ask. His eyes are worn around the edges and sad.

"However you ended up involved in all this, Elena, you're in it now." I follow his eyes to Stefan who remains standing quiet behind me. "Stefan, do you mind giving Liz a call and letting her know I wont be rejoining the search tonight?"

Stefan nods, but his eyes linger on mine. There's an insecurity there that I think is still waiting for me to run screaming. After a moment, he seems satisfied that I haven't yet. He looks back at Zach before climbing up the steps past him and disappearing into this cavernous house.

 **XXX**

I follow Zach into a room on the second floor. It's bright and large, and it takes me a moment to realize that it must be Sarah's bedroom and not one of the guest rooms. An oversized bed with a beautiful four poster frame the same dark wood as the paneled walls is positioned off center nearer to the far corner of the room. A wall of windows and a pair of glass-paned French doors reveals a secluded balcony beyond, hidden in a secret garden's worth of foliage just on the other side of the bed. Curtains large and thick enough to shut out the day are tied back at both corners of the room.

The rest of the room is sparsely furnished. There's no vanity, only a bedside table and a large desk with an adjustable top like a drafting table. Everything is so neat, nearing impersonal, but for the walls of black and white printed photographs. The soft evening light from the windows casts the shadows of the eccentric collage in rich contrast. The subject matter is a strange juxtaposition of the high school mundane among nature and the macabre. There's a wide view of three girls leaning over the sinks in the high school's bathroom all inches from their own reflections, applying makeup. I recognize Caroline in that one and suppress a grin. Other white borders frame images of the Falls, a dead dark-feathered bird, light through the stained glass in our church, rotten fruit, and another one I recognize as Stefan's figure silhouetted in front of one of the house's many massive windows.

"Talented, isn't she?" Zach's voice breaks through my considerations.

"Yes." I smile back at him before turning back to look closer at another photograph. "I had no idea."

"She found her mother's Polaroid camera in some old things when she was a little girl. I think she slept with that thing for over a year." I observe the photo in front of me, careful to avoid his eyes. The pain in his voice is too much for me, and I don't want him to see the beginnings of tears stinging my eyes. I try better to discern what I'm looking at. An expanse of overgrown forest framed by two crumbling stone statuaries. Years of undergrowth claims the remnants of a house burnt near to the foundation, one of Mystic Falls' forgotten antebellum ruins.

"That's the old Salvatore Estate. This place was built nearly fifty years after it burnt down near the end of the war," Zach tells me after I stare with interest at it for too long. He pauses for a beat before adding, "Stefan was born there."

I pivot to face him, stopping to evaluate the exhaustion he carries in his shoulders.

"Do you trust him?" I ask, meeting his eyes. "—Stefan?" My gut twists with impatience while he considers it.

"What got you caught up in all of this, huh?" He asks, and I'm not sure if he's avoiding the question. His parental concern makes my heart ache for my own father.

"I found some of my parent's things. Weapons. Journals. I couldn't believe at first, but then Caroline. And Sarah. Stefan . . ." I trail off. Damon.

"There's a Council. Community leaders from founding families with journals passed down like yours. I always suspected your father had some real world experience, but most of the Council wouldn't know what to do with the pointy end of a stake. None of those idiots has seen a vampire in their very boring lives. If they had they'd know they didn't stand a chance at stopping one." I shiver without meaning to. Every source I've encountered agrees with him, and yet his words seem to resonate more than the others.

"You can't trust a vampire, Elena," he says before sighing. "But Stefan—Stefan is family. He doesn't hurt people—doesn't drink from them. He's protected us, and he saved Sarah's life when she was a baby. If anyone is going to get my little girl back, it's going to be him. Sometimes faith will serve you better than trust." He gives me a reassuring smile that makes me sure he has no idea about Caroline—that he believes in Stefan as much as I believed in my father. Before I can decide to say anything, he takes my bag and turns to the same wall with the door to the hallway. He pushes a pair of pocket doors into the wall and reveals an extension of the room.

"Wow," I breathe, walking up to the entrance to get a better look.

"This was meant to be a big en suite. This bedroom is probably the biggest in the house. I meant to turn it into a luxury suite for guests, but before the contractors finished up the bathroom, I realized it was really the best option for a darkroom."

The room is large for what would have been a bathroom. The light from the bedroom's wall of windows illuminates the best it can the windowless room's mix of dark wood paneling and modern gray stone. A ventilation hood painted black seems to exhaust out of what might have once been a window. Below that are a large porcelain tub and built in shelves that are full of various supplies and shallow plastic bins. There's counter space on both side walls. On the counter opposite the tub a device that resembles a strange microscope is set up with scraps of film and scissors lying next to it.

I follow Zach further inside, passing him to observe the innermost wall. A frame lined with large chicken wire hangs on a wall tiled in textured stone. Clipped to it with clothes pins, are more black and white photographs hanging above a floor with a drain set into it.

From behind me, Zach pulls the pocket doors closed. After a moment of total darkness the room is illuminated again, this time cast in an eerie red glow. The repurposed shower stall transforms into a dark and malevolent impression of the stuff my recent nightmares are made of.

I fall back, swiveling, retreating to find Zach setting my bag down on the counter with the not-quite-a-microscope.

"This is pretty incredible," I admit despite the effort it takes to quell my rapid heart. "Sarah knows how to do all of this? Did you teach her?" I ask as I sidle up to the counter next to him. He's assembling a small collection of tools on the table in a careful pattern—the scissors, some tweezers, a screwdriver and a cylindrical metal canister.

"Actually, she taught me," he sighs with a smile. It makes me smile and my chest ache. "I've done my best to keep up."

I watch with a confused furrow of my brow as Zach turns from his assortment of tools to my backpack, opening the zipper with a slow pull and then only large enough for him to reach his arm inside.

"Is there a chance to save it?" I ask, unsure of where it's reasonable to temper my hope that it can help at all.

Zach roots through my bag with slow and careful movements, feeling with his hand instead of looking inside.

"Whatever damage is already done can't be helped, but the trick is getting it developed without managing to cause any more." He pulls his arm out of the bag and zips it back. I meet his eyes, confused. "I have to transfer the film to this canister without exposing it to any light, even the safelight. The camera back is cracked and the rewinding mechanism might not work. I think I can manage it, it's just going to take some time. I can take it from here."

I nod, but my stomach sinks from the influence of my disappointment and nervous impatience. I shouldn't have waited this long to bring it here. If I had tried to extract that film myself, it would have ruined it.

Zach Salvatore draws my eyes back to his with their intensity. "Whatever we find, Elena—Thank you."

I see it there in his eyes, even warped by the ghoulish red light. Damming up the powerful current of fear and desperation crashing against its walls—Faith.

 **Alright, so I know this one was Damon/Delena-lite but I promise the next update compensates considerably. :) I wanted to take the opportunity to show more of Zach and Sarah's characters and relationships. Let me know what you think.**


	15. All This Empty Space

**Alright, I hope this chapter is a satisfying taste for those of you craving Delena feels. They will start to be more frequent from now on. Enjoy :)**

 _'Cause every devil that I have ever loved_

 _Looked just like a saint_

 _Could you hold my soul and whisper close that you will never change_

 _You should leave_

 _Don't walk away_

 _'Cause my past and_ _ **all this empty space**_ _is gonna kill me anyway_

 _-Former Vandal_

I've gotten better at spotting Damon in time to keep from jumping out of my shirt. It's the only thing that saves me from alarming Jenna with startled screams when I see him.

I inhale through my clenched teeth. My hand halts above the knob of my front door before I drop it to my side. I let my breath free and change course for the swing at the corner of my porch. The dark-clad occupant's arm is splayed across the back rest of the vacant half. As soon as I take the empty seat, he pulls his arm back into his lap and begins to twist the heavy ring on his left hand around his middle finger. I don't know why I didn't notice before that it's a copy of the same one Stefan taps against hard surfaces when he's nervous.

I pull my legs up onto the swing and cross them, watching him, waiting for a cue. When Damon's eyes do find me, they flick to my chest and kindle a warmth in my cheeks.

"You still know who I am?" he grumbles, lifting his hand between us and displaying two of his fingers. "How many Damons am I holding up?"

"Huh?" I wrinkle my nose.

"You're missing your neck ornament. You sure my bro didn't charm himself and all the vampires right out of your head?" I touch my open palm to my bare neckline for a moment, before I drop it and shake my head.

"Zach Salvatore has a crop of vervain in his basement. I have some of it distilled I can put in my coffee now. I gave the necklace back." Damon makes his disapproval known with a snort and turns from me to look out at our dark street. "It belongs to Stefan—And you and I did _steal_ it." I roll the vial around in my pocket. It's still there, where I put it after I dabbed it on both my wrists _before_ returning the locket to Stefan.

"Because my brother has so many uses for antique jewelry," he scoffs. He's upset, so I drop it and the silence swells between us.

Until I can't take it.

"Did you see the comet?" I wince against the awkwardness of my forced smalltalk. He tears himself away from his sentry over our street to look at me.

"Yeah, a hundred and forty-five years ago," he snaps. The sudden and harsh edge in his voice wounds me, even if I wish it wouldn't. I bite my lip and look away to keep whatever reflexive expression I've made from giving me away.

There's a small spider in the center of one of the swing's chain links, spinning a web. I watch it work while reciting two cycles of Itsy Bitsy Spider in my head, nursing my pride before a haughty voice beside me declares, "You need to get some thicker skin." The spider falls out of focus. Something brewing between embarrassment and rage propels me to my feet, turning on my heel to face the swing.

Gah! He's such an asshole. Defensive rants begin in my mind—all retracted before they can finish.

I'm not the one who—

You know what, you—

Would it kill you to just—

"Yeah, well you need someone to prescribe you a mood stabilizer," I bark, realizing the first one I manage to make into a complete thought is on my spiteful lips before I can stop it. I grimace, sucking in a sharp breath. My attention darts to the house, watching and listening for signs of movement from within.

"Yeah?" I look back at him to find his stupid grin. "You got any referrals for a doc that treats dead people, Haley Joel?" I narrow my eyes and try to embody the righteous anger I can't manage to hold onto.

"Just because you're dead doesn't give you carte blanche to be a jerk to whoever you want . . . Bruce," I fumble to add the appropriate moniker at the end. All it does is earn me a short burst of laughter from him.

He exhales an audible breath of air and runs his long fingers through dark overgrown hair. He disrupts every strand as his hand travels to the back of his neck, but they all seem to find a way back to their original disorganized arrangement. After I notice what I'm doing, I startle and look away before he can discover my intent observation of him, or how foolish I feel for wishing I could reach out and touch him.

I'm not sure my mind is safe from him. He seems to pull everything I think when I'm around him onto my face and read it like ink stamped across my flesh.

"You're the only one around I _can_ be a jerk to." My increasing pulse can't separate the ill fitting meaning of his words from the soft voice that transforms them into an apology.

I meet his eyes for a moment. They're full of sincerity, void of humility. In the space between breaths, they take my forgiveness before I ever have the chance to decide if I want to offer it. I look away again before they can take anything else, stepping down onto the stairs so I can see the sky. Damon disembarks from the swing and follows after me, ruining the distance I was trying to put between us.

"That's not fair, you know." I try to salvage some of my pride. "Taking everything out on me because I'm the only one." I look up at the small white streak across the night sky and wrap my arms around myself. It's gotten colder since I left Stefan at the square with Bonnie, Matt, and Tyler for the remainder of the festival.

"Life doesn't play fair all that often, Elena."

"Can we talk about that then?" I pause on the memory of his face in the library earlier tonight, strained with pain. "So, you and your brother dated the same girl, and then she turned you both into immortal creatures of the night?" I sound like an idiot. The upbeat tone I've put on does little to mask the nervous quaver in my voice.

Damon makes a noise that might be choking. I don't dare look away from the sky.

"Apparently, neither do you." I hold my breath the length of the lull before he starts again. "Katherine didn't play by anybody's rules. She was selfish and not always very kind, but she was fierce and passionate. She was very beautiful—" He pauses. I can't keep myself from looking at him. "A lot like you in the department." Something swarms inside my gut, but the confounded look in his eyes turns it to writhing.

Is it so baffling to compare us? Every time he looks at me, I think he still sees the little girl whose foolish meddling got him killed. I look back at the sky.

"My brother fell for her, same as the rest. But I loved her—" I try to swallow against the unpleasant sensation of snakes crawling up my throat. "—She chose me, and Stefan was never supposed to be involved . . . In any of it." His voice turns bitter.

"What do you mean?" I ask. I'm missing something.

"All of it was something romantic at the time—loving someone forever, no rules, out from under the thumb of my father. When she was gone, it became a prison sentence instead."

"You wanted to become a vampire?" I breathe and turn to watch him staring in longing and disappointment at the comet above.

"Until Stefan couldn't keep his mouth shut and got us all caught. They took her to burn in the church with the others and our father shot us both in the road as we tried to stop it. I wanted it so I could be with Katherine. When I woke, I wasn't too thrilled at the prospect of spending eternity with my brother instead." I sink onto the steps below. It's quiet for a beat, and I look up at Damon still standing. He dares me to say something with the firm line of his mouth.

"So, an eternity of misery then?" I defy. His lips press tight together to the point of disappearing.

"I ran out of steam after a few decades. The rest of his misery is self-inflicted," he manages through clenched teeth. I nod and look down at one of my hands wringing the other between my knees. Even if I'm not cold anymore, I feel jittery, and nauseous, and my heart aches. I should be too tired to feel any of it. "You shouldn't trust him so easily, Elena." His voice is low and thick.

I stand, taking a step up towards the porch so I can close the distance in our heights and meet his eyes.

"Why not?" I challenge. He doesn't break eye contact.

"He ruins everything he touches—We all do." We stare at each other unblinking long enough for me to see how deep-rooted this belief is. My chest clenches and my brow knits together in understanding.

"I trust him. And I trust _you_." The tightness in his jaw releases, and his lips part. I can't keep my eyes from flitting to his mouth and lingering there too long. When I find the courage to lift them again, his are searching my face in a desperate conflict between never discovering what he's looking for or finding it was there all along. "I'm sorry, Damon."

"For what?"

"That you lost her—Katherine." Every pain I thought I couldn't bear and every 'I'm fine' I didn't mean fills those words. I clench my fists at my sides against their longing to reach out—the simple distance they would cross to touch his shoulders—a fraction further to rake their fingers through the hair at his temple.

Damon's eyes flare to circles and then narrow to slits in his appraisal of me. His brow clenches for a moment in consideration and vulnerability flashes across his features.

"Can I trust you, Elena?" He's closer than before, and I can't breathe.

"Yes." I don't feel the word leave my lips before I hear it in my voice. He looks up at the sky one last time before looking back at me with a giddy relief lighting up his face. A weight lifts from among the burdens he carries in his eyes. The desperate hope of the possibility of freedom flickers to life in its absence.

"There's a reason for all of this. Why I'm _here_. Why I've been waiting. The comet. Why it's _you_." My chest expands, a breath so large that the resulting oxygen to my brain feels like fireworks bursting behind my eyes. The sparks ignite an inferno over my whole body. "You were meant for me—" My skin is ablaze, consuming me, though I don't care.

"—Katherine isn't lost. She's buried alive in the tomb under the church. You were meant to help me free her."

My breath stops. The flames burn the remaining oxygen from my body and die malnourished. I unclench my fists and icy rejection spiderwebs from my palms up my arms and encases my chest.

 **XXX**

September 11th, 2009

Dear Diary,

It seems like an age since I've been able to write. But really, it's only been three days. So much has happened in that time that I wish I had a whole day just to write, so I could sort through it all.

But I don't.

Three days ago, I didn't know Damon—only that he was lonely and angry, possibly imaginary. Now, I know he's real. The loneliness and the anger are real, and they're accompanied by longing and regret. Damon has a brother. He has a love he waited over a century to reunite with.

I care about him. He looks out for me. He confides in me. All of it is real.

He's real.

And he's not.

He's dead.

The person I relate to most, that has made me feel the most alive since my parents' death is dead. This is the opposite direction of healthy grief, and yet he's the one that makes it easier for me to keep going.

One day, he will be gone. As if he were never here at all. No one will mourn him with me. No one will understand.

Last night, he asked me to help him, to release her—Katherine—from the tomb. He thinks it's what is keeping him from moving on, finding peace—unfinished business. He didn't call it that, but it's what he means. It certainly sounds like it could be—145 years worth of unfinished business—but I think his relationship with his brother may be just as unresolved.

Either way, I promised him I would help him. He deserves resolution and peace, what's to be had of it.

I can't be selfish with him. I can't extend his imprisonment so I can prop myself up with the feelings of safety and courage he gives me.

I'll have to let him go. And until then, _whatever_ I feel will have to stay between you and I.

 **XXX**

"Miss Gilbert?" I look up from my open journal at the sound of my name being called.

Crap.

I close the book over my pen and try to give it a discreet tug underneath my folded arm to reveal the empty sheet of notebook paper that is supposed to be my notes. The class's attention is on me again. I search the board for clues as to what magical answer might satisfy all of them.

Right. World War II. That's what Tanner's been talking about. Because that's a lesson that makes chronological sense to follow four periods of Civil War lectures in a history class.

I've got nothing.

I've been writing in my journal since about ten minutes into Tanner's lesson, because I can't keep it all inside anymore. It's been more difficult to find a moment where a specific pair of prying blue eyes weren't watching. I wouldn't dare become so absorbed in my own thoughts near so many eyes under normal circumstances, but I have to take what I can get.

"Hmm?" I offer with a non-committal acknowledgment. I poise my pen back above the paper as if it were recording his lecture and not my own personal struggles I was so involved in.

"Pearl Harbor?" He elaborates only enough to dumbfound me further.

What about it? My mouth parts as I stall my inevitable failure.

"Uhhmm—" I start, holding my lips pressed together in the line that forms the 'm' sound.

"December Seventh, Nineteen Forty-One," a casual voice from the seat behind me answers—a seat that to the rest of the class appears empty. A pair of leather boots prop themselves up on the end of my armrest. Of course, I should've expected him. I sit up straighter and try not to think about how long he's been there. My eyes land on Stefan across from me. He's opening his mouth to come to my rescue. No one but me heard Damon's answer.

I repeat the date to the class before Stefan can finish the second syllable of 'December'. He stopped himself after I started and is smiling at me.

Tanner starts to say something and then closes his mouth on the abrupt conclusion that whatever belittling rebuke he had prepared for the example he wants to make out of me no longer suits the situation.

"Thank you, Miss Gilbert," is the awkward praise he lands on. I can hear the disappointment in his voice. Justice and vindication combine with unwarranted pride in my chest. The idiotic result bubbles up out of my throat.

"Anytime." It curls my lips into a satisfied grin as it leaves them. Tanner stops his return to the board and raises his eyebrows when he faces me. A smile twists his features into predatory amusement, and my confidence falters.

Stupid. Stupid.

"Aright, then," he prompts. "The fall of the Berlin Wall."

No clue. I bite my lip waiting for Damon to save me again. After half a moment of nothing, I incline my head over my shoulder the slightest amount to urge him to help.

"Fuck if I know," is all I get.

Great help you are, Damon.

"No?" Tanner responds to my extended silence, but I haven't earned my freedom yet. "How about the Civil Rights Act?" Damon remains silent, therefore; I do as well. Tanner continues. "Something easier? The John F. Kennedy Assassination? Martin Luther King Jr.?"

"This guy is a dick," is Damon's very helpful offering. Yeah, no kidding.

My mouth hangs open. My cheeks, neck, and ears are all flushed with anger and frustration.

"Nineteen Eighty-Nine, Sixty-Four, Sixty-Three, and Sixty-Eight." A voice speaks up. The absence of the spotlight is an instant cool relief to my burning face. Tanner has repositioned it on Stefan.

"Excellent, _Miss Gilbert_ ," Tanner sneers at him.

Stefan flashes him a brilliant smile.

"I'm good with dates, sir."

"Okay, Salvatore." Tanner delights in his new victim for his fascist edition of Trivial Pursuit. "Lincoln's assassination."

"Eighteen Sixty-Five," Damon mutters from behind me a breath before Stefan supplies it with confidence.

Sure, now you feel like sharing. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose before pulling my hair over my left shoulder and off the back of my neck.

"Roe v. Wade."

"Nineteen Seventy-Three."

"Brown versus Board."

"Fifty-Four."

Tanner and Stefan continue their back and forth. I look to where Bonnie sits so we can mime our solidarity over how ridiculous this is, but I can't get her attention. She's hunched over her notebook scribbling. Her knuckles are white from the firm hold she has on the pen pressed to the paper.

"Battle of Gettysburg," Tanner continues.

"Eighteen Sixty-Three," Damon and Stefan respond in unison. I furrow my brow and fight the urge to turn around to face him.

"Korean War."

"Nineteen Fifty to Nineteen Fifty-Three," Stefan supplies a prompt answer to meet Tanner's demand.

Tanner's eyes widen with triumph. It's disturbing.

"Ha!" he delights with no restraint. "It ended in Fifty-Two."

Stefan's brow furrows in skepticism.

"I'm certain it was Fifty-Three," Stefan insists, masking his confidence with as much humility he can manage for someone who lived through all of it. "—Sir," he adds for good measure.

Tanner's pathology won't allow him to let it go. A moment after he enlists the aid of the spectating students to prove him right, half the class is pulling out their cell phones. Only a few bother trying to look it up in their textbooks.

I twist in my seat enough to see Damon's boots are gone from my armrest.

"It sure as hell wasn't over in Fifty-Two. Who gave this idiot a job?" His voice rumbles through me, closer than it was before. Without looking back, I imagine him leaning forward onto the desk with crossed arms, his lips a conspiratorial distance from my uncovered ear. A ripple of heat flashes over my skin as I think of his breath on the back of my neck.

Stop, Elena.

I reach my arm back over my shoulder and pull my hair back behind it in hopes of covering any tells Damon might decide to glean from the rosy color of my skin.

Someone in the class confirms Stefan's answer.

Mind over matter, right?

Except when it comes to Damon, I'm no longer able to discern one from the other. The more I _think_ of him, the less it _matters_ to me where the line between the two is drawn.

Tanner tries to go back to lecturing on Pearl Harbor to a class of snickering students, as if he could push the toothpaste back in the tube.

 **XXX**

 _"It's been over fifty years since I've had a chance to test it out."_

I'm on the way to the quad for lunch when embarrassed reflection on this morning's history class recalls another memory.

A meeting on a dark empty road with a stranger. A first conversation. Significant words veiled with nonchalant shrugs and crooked grins.

 _Pearl Harbor, The Civil War, The Korean War—_ All of them over fifty years ago. I mistook the quiet from the seat behind me in history as Damon withholding answers to amuse himself with watching me flounder. I didn't consider until this moment that he might be as ignorant as me.

The revelation strikes me mid-stride. My heart clenches.

Damon, who has been in step with me since leaving Algebra II, halts a few paces ahead and looks back at me. There's a surprising amount of sarcastic-free kindness and concern in his demeanor, a contented change in him, that I can't help but attribute to the promise I made him last night.

"What?" He asks in a tone that suggests he's inquiring for the sake of someone he might consider a friend.

There hasn't been more than a one-sided exchange between the two of us since he left me to find sleep last night. I meet his eyes, fighting the urge to look away, and smile.

Jealousy joins the sorrow wringing the breath from my lungs. I'm envious of the dehydrated husk of a tiny-waisted, hoop skirt-wearing, two-timing corpse, covetous of the release he seeks from years of torment.

All because I know he would choose them over me.

"Nothing."

 **So, I know the scene from history class's dialogue is very similar to the show, but this is one of the first scenes I imagined when I was coming up with the concept for this story. Originally, the twist was going to be Damon telling her all the answers and Elena showing Stefan that she could handle herself. Then, as I decided to write it, I realized that Damon would have been a prisoner for most of the dates and while he's had the last ten years as a ghost to catch up on the outside world, he wouldn't know all of them by heart the way someone who lived through the events would. Then the scene became a poignant way to illustrate the impact of Damon's imprisonment to Elena. Plus, the dates of the Korean War falling across the year that Damon was captured was just too perfect.**

 **Long story short, I hope the alterations to the scenes that are similar to the show are still meaningful and not superfluous. Let me know how you feel about it. Is it a good balance.**

 **How do you feel about Elena being on the unrequited side of things? I'm enjoying the role reversal of it all.**

 **I had fun writing this one :) Let me know what you think. I appreciate everyone's feedback so much.**


	16. Stay

**This one's a short one, but 2/3 is Delena so there's that. Thanks to everyone for reading and for those of you who continue to show your support. Since the last update I've passed 100 reviews, 100 followers and 50,000 words! The last milestone is one I've yet to like a story enough to reach. The first two encourage and humble me. Thanks so much and Enjoy!**

 _Not really sure how to feel about it_

 _Something in the way you move_

 _Makes me feel like I can't live without you_

 _It takes me all the way_

 _I want you to **stay**_

 _And I break down as you walk away_

 _ **Stay** ,_

 _ **Stay**_

' _Cause all my life I felt this way_

 _But I could never find the words to say_

 _ **Stay** , _

_**Stay**_

— _Rhianna, Mikky Ekko_

— _Hurts_

I'm late to change for cheer practice because Ms. Warren announced halfway through my eighth period Advanced Composition class that she wanted to see me after class. After everyone had filed out of the room, she wrapped a supportive arm around my shoulder that overwhelmed me with the smell of incense and inquired after my first week back at school. I did my best to assure her that I was getting on okay while looking at the button at the top of her knit cardigan buttoned into the wrong corresponding buttonhole instead of looking her in the eye. The tone of her parting words suggested she knew better, but she sent me off without a challenge.

I love Ms. Warren, but I don't think she's prepared for the non-fiction version of my 'What I Did This Summer' essay.

When I reach the girls locker room, it's already empty. Discarded hair ribbons and half-open overflowing makeup bags litter the benches in front of the varsity cheer lockers. Tiki's pink leopard print flatiron is still plugged in, slung in a precarious position over her open locker door. I raise an eyebrow on Caroline's behalf and shake my head before heading over to my own locker. The girls are lucky Care's not here to see this.

I stop a locker before mine, at Caroline's, to peruse the varied inscriptions on the the get well card taped to it. I pull out a gold glitter gel pen from my messenger bag—reserved for any analog correspondence between besties—and add my own glowing well wishes to a vacant corner of the cardstock, complete with a gaggle of X, O, and smiling heart flourishes. I replace the pen and drop the bag at the foot of my locker, spinning the combination with a dexterous touch to release the latch and pull the door open.

I grab a hunter green tank and a pair of Nike drawstring shorts from the top shelf and my duffel from one of the hooks before closing the door with the hanging lock still obstructing its ability to latch.

Ahh!

"God, Damon," I gasp and clutch the clothes to my chest, even though I haven't even started to change yet.

There goes my dignity streak.

"Overdid it a bit, don't you think?" He's hunched over with his hands shoved in the pockets of his gray distressed jeans, taking a closer look at the still-drying ink on Caroline's card. He's abandoned the leather jacket. The muscles in his arms flex out from underneath the short sleeves of his dark blue v-neck. I think it's the first color I've ever seen him wear.

"This is the girls locker room." I try to muster an appropriate level of reproach despite being distracted.

"I'm dead; it doesn't count." He stands upright and smiles at me. I drop my duffel and clothes on the bench in front of my locker and busy myself with going through it, pulling out everything I need for practice.

Sneakers. Socks. Water Bottle. Hair tie. Poms. I check them off a mental list and then kick off my Converse while starting to tug at the hem of my gray peplum top. I stop when I realize I'm about to undress in front of a crooked-grinning, self-satisfied voyeur. I pull my hem down and flare my eyes in a pointed direction at the exit, but he either doesn't get the hint or ignores it. It's a safe bet which.

"Well, if you're not gonna leave, turn around." I emphasize my insistence with a commanding gesture of my hand. Damon's smile straightens out as it widens. His eyes narrow in amusement as he raises an open palm in surrender.

"Alright, alright," he laughs, before turning his back on me.

"And no peeking!" I blush at my own words after tracing the taut shape of his shoulders and back through his shirt with a languorous eye.

"You know, I was a southern gentleman once. I've got a few leftover nineteenth century manners in here somewhere." Without his expressive features to help me, I'm not quite sure if he's being sarcastic. I watch his back for a moment longer to insure he stays turned and then turn my own back on his.

"Buried deep, I'm sure," I tell him. After I lift my top over my head and grab up the tank top from the bench, I hear him chuckle. I check to make sure he's still facing away, before I unzip my jeans and step out of them one leg at a time.

In the span of quiet that extends while I finish changing I try to imagine Damon costumed in the fare of the Civil War reenactments and Historical Society events I've been exposed to my entire childhood in Mystic Falls. Somehow, I don't think waistcoats and cravats would suit him quite as well as cotton V-necks and leather jackets.

I leave Damon standing in suspense even after I'm dressed. I sit on the bench to slip on my white cheer sneakers and then return to my locker to remove my earrings and grab a hairbrush. Without an invitation to turn around again, Damon appears at my side as I use the mirror on the inside of my locker door to pull my hair up into a high pony.

"So, cheerleading, huh?" He says from over my shoulder, examining our reflections in the mirror. I furrow my brow and allow the elastic to snap free on its final twist around my mass of brown hair. I look away from the mirror to face him.

"I like cheering," I assert. He raises an eyebrow. "What?" I demand, failing to keep the insecurity from leaking into my voice.

"You're not exactly overflowing with cheer." He shrugs. A fight swells in me as my cheeks puff up with stubborn arguments, but I sigh instead.

"I used to be." I look away from him and find my reflection again. The face is the same, but my eyes are changed by weariness. I lift the lock and shut the door. "I wasn't always gloomy graveyard girl. I have to get back to the things that used to matter."

When I look at Damon again, his expression is skeptical. A quiet look passes between us while I wait for him to press it further and then contemplate why he doesn't. I slide the combination lock back into place and click it shut. "So," I draw out the word to start. "What are you doing here, Damon? I thought you got bored in French. Because if you're just here to ogle—"

"High school cheerleaders are more my brother's type—" My stomach squirms. "—I'm more of a collegiate man myself." I roll my eyes.

"You went to college?" I laugh.

"I've been on a college campus," he offers an ambiguous clarification in a low, blackened voice. His eyes and his face darken. I recognize the abrupt change in him that offers a silent recommendation that I redirect the subject.

"What _are_ you doing here, then?" I repeat because I'm comfortable enough now with what errant thoughts call him to my side to know that he came on his own. I walk over to the bench to ready my things.

Damon's lips press together and his nose wrinkles in a wary grimace.

"In the spirit of promises made and partnerships formed," he starts. There's a supplicating smile on his face and his hands gesture open in front of his body, an entreaty to hear him out. "I need a favor."

He scrunches up his nose further, but his raised eyebrows pull his blue eyes open wide with hope.

"What?" I breathe. My hand pauses midair over the zipper of my duffel bag. My own hope joins his—the hope that I have the power to give him what he wants. I don't know if I could stitch together enough willpower to deny him.

"The Little Witch—" I frown at him. "Bon-Bon. She's a Bennett witch; she has Emily's crystal. We need her help and we need that crystal if we're going to get that tomb open."

"Bonnie?" I take a step back from him. "What does she have to do with it? A Bennett witch? Her name is Hopkins."

"It doesn't really matter what her name is. Emily Bennett was her ancestor; their bloodline is maternal—she's a Bennett witch. I knew Emily Bennett in 1864. She was Katherine's handmaid. She's the one who spelled her in the tomb to save her from the fire. If we're going to get her out, we're going to need that crystal and Bonnie's help would probably go a hell of a long way to making the whole thing easier."

"I thought you said the comet was the key to opening it?" His stretching grimace draws lines in the skin around his cheeks. The humility of asking for help twists with the guilt of being caught in deception.

"The comet's part of it. Witches, they use celestial events like magical batteries. Emily used the juice from the comet to bind the spell to that crystal, and it's why I had to wait for it to reappear before I could open it. But we still need a witch and the talisman to do the spell." He steps closer to me, a plea in his voice and in his eyes. It's not a look on him I take any pleasure in. I shake my head, uneasy with the vital holes Damon continues to leave in the plots of all his stories.

"You can't keep leaving these things out until the last minute, Damon. I want to help you, but you have to let me all the way in." I resent my quiet voice for giving away more of me than I mean to. Damon considers me with wide eyes that see too much. I clear my throat. "I made you a promise, but Bonnie's my friend—she's still figuring her magic out. I don't know if I can—"

"Then just ask her over for a friendly dinner, and then ask for a friendly favor—for a friend." His smile is nervous—and sweet—and ridiculous.

"I'm having dinner with my brother tonight. And I'm still waiting to see what Zach and Stefan find from the camera." I lean down and grab up my things. "And I'm late for cheer practice." I walk around Damon towards the exit that leads out to the gym. He jumps back in front of me.

"You promised, Elena." The words are quiet and small. His face tells me he doesn't want to be saying them, doesn't want to reveal his desperation. I bite my lip against the ache in my chest. It could be as easy, go as smooth as he says it will. A short hike, a quick spell, a ghost whisperer reunion and Damon could be gone for good.

I'm not ready to let go yet.

"I know." I meant it to come out with kindness and understanding, but by the time it reaches my ears and his it is twisted with jealousy and petulance. "There's just too much sometimes—" I try to recover while I watch Damon's expression and faith in me deteriorate. "So much that I can't _breathe_ , and I need some space. I need space for the rest of my life." I don't notice how close Damon is to me until my words make him recoil.

This is why I need to be writing in my journal more. Ink and paper don't have feelings, don't interpret my words any way other than how I mean.

They don't vanish while you're trying to figure out the right words to clarify, to apologize, to make them stay.

 **XXX**

I set the paper bags full of food from the Grille on the island in the kitchen and sigh. Cheerleading practice was a disaster. A subconscious part of me was hoping that cheering would be some magical reset button, that poms and smiles, adrenaline and endorphins would resuscitate a piece of the person I used to be. But just like everything else in my life, it's just not the same. There's no thrill, no genuine desire for it anymore. Plus, I was right about being out of shape, and I'm even more out of practice than I thought. Routines from last year don't come as easily anymore, and I spent the entire practice a half count behind everyone else. Without Caroline there, we didn't even touch on any of the new stuff.

Bonnie was supposed to be in charge of the squad until Caroline's healthy return to power, but instead she left the reigns in the bickering hands of Tiki and Dana. She was more distracted than I was through practice. I know something's bothering her, but I didn't press it. I definitely couldn't bring up my fight with Damon or what it was about.

I shouldn't have said those things to Damon. He's the reason I can't breathe, but it has nothing to do with what he assumes—that he's an unwelcome burden—and everything to do with his eyes. He catches me off guard with them, and they light all the oxygen in my lungs on fire. Sometimes, it's the only thing that makes me feel warm inside for days. Each time I get closer to justifying choking on the flames just to keep the fire.

I'm not sure how long he'll stay away this time. He's stubborn and ageless, and his cold shoulder may just outlive me.

I pull the lids from the foil pan of pasta and dump it into a serving bowl, setting it aside to do the same with the salad when I hear heavy steps on the stairs. I cross the kitchen to pass through the opening that connects it to the entryway.

"Jer," I call, looking up at the staircase to find him clomping down it in a big pair of dark combat boots. I dash the short distance to meet him at the landing, placing myself between him and the door. He's wearing an old pair of jeans and a dark red long sleeve thermal with a backpack slung over one shoulder. I frown at his attire, but do my best to replace it with a quick smile.

"Hey," I start as if his intentions to head out the door weren't clear. "I made takeout for dinner." I widen my smile at the lameness of my joke, but Jeremy is unmoved.

"Sorry, Elena. I've got plans," he says as he tries to shove past me. I put my hand up to stop him, dropping my cautious approach for a concerned one. They're the same words he used to call as he ran out the door to meet Sarah all summer, but there's a bitter pain in his voice that's been absent since the weeks after our parents died.

"What? Waiting until Jenna leaves for the library so you can sneak off and join Sarah's search party. C'mon, Jer. Have some dinner with me first." He shakes his head, expression still fixed in apathy.

"I've gotta get going. It'll be dark soon." Fear and protectiveness flare and burn my throat.

"Which is exactly why you shouldn't be out in the woods with some—" I stumble to say the word 'animal' "on the loose." I press a hand to my brother's wide chest. "I know how you feel about Sarah, Jeremy. Stay and talk to me about it, okay. The Sheriff and her deputies are doing everything they can for her. Just _stay_ ," I plead. My eyes sting with the futility of the words my heart has cried to every person as they've left me this year.

"You don't know anything," Jeremy raises his voice with the feeling that floods his stoic expression. "You have people. You have Bonnie and Caroline, some guy you're always shutting yourself in your room to talk to." My lips part. My mind can't begin to fathom having to explain Damon to my brother. He starts again before I have to try and deny it. "Sarah is all I have, and whatever happens to her—It's my fault." My face wrenches in pain and sympathy as I step up on the landing with him and grip Jeremy's shoulders with my hands.

"It's not your fault. Don't you think I've spent months wishing I could take it all back, that I could rewind it all and just stay home and suck at Pictionary? But Mom and Dad wouldn't have wanted this. You still have me and Jenna. We're still a family, Jer. Let us be here for you until you get her back."

"A family where all the members are broken, missing, or _absent_." The pointed meaning in his words pierces me with sharp longing and guilt. I look away so he doesn't see the tears well up in my eyes. My vision is blurred by the buildup. I refuse to blink and set streaking down my cheeks. He starts again in a softer voice, "Look, Elena she just got it without being in it. The loneliness and the anger, she made it _better_." I nod because I can't deny that I know a familiar presence, even if the way Damon distracts me from my grief is by being a pain in the ass.

"I'm sorry," I choke on the words. "I know I haven't been—" A chime and consecutive buzzing coming from my pocket interrupts me. My phone. I grab it out of my jeans, unable to resist checking it because I've been waiting for news from Zach and Stefan.

"It's alright," Jeremy reaches around me for a one armed hug. "It looks like you have plans, too." He gives me a squeeze and then twists me to the side so he can he step past me. A pull of air from outside blows a strand of hair in my face. The front door closes behind him, and the house goes quiet and still.

I rub the hair and tears out of my eyes with the back of a fist clenched around my cellphone. Once my vision is clear again, I flip open the phone and read the message that waits for me.

 **From: Stefan**

 **Found something. Come over.**

 **XXX**

 **Elena's reached the point of no return when it comes to falling for Damon, she just doesn't know it yet :)**

 **Anyway, so the show ends next week, but this story is not quite halfway done. I'm determined to see this story to completion, so drop me a review to let me know you'll be sticking it out with me, what you think of it, or how you feel about the show coming to an end. I love hearing from you guys.**

 **Grateful,**

 **Sam**


	17. Can't Touch

**So, welcome to the first update in the post TVD finale world! I'm so _very_ sorry for how late it is. I wrestled with this one and also procrastinated by exploring some of the plot bunnies the finale infested me with.**

 **So, good news: This is the longest chapter to date.**

 **Bad news: It's almost entirely Stefan-centric *ducks***

 **Don't kill me. I felt it was important, or I wouldn't have included it, but I do hope you enjoy it at least a little bit.**

 **Before I let you at it, I just want to say thank you for all of the support you showed me after the last update and the insistence that I continue. I'm not going anywhere. Sorry if my prolonged absence gave you a scare.**

 **Happy reading!**

 _So far from being free_

 _Of the past that's haunting me_

 _The future I just **can't touch**_

 _And if you take my hand_

 _Please pull me from the dark_

 _And show me hope again_

– _Olafur Arnalds, Arnor Dan_

"Where's Zach?" I ask as I hover at the threshold of Sarah's darkroom. I wait for Stefan to turn on the light before taking a tentative step inside.

"He went to get help from a friend of his with a photo lab in Grove Hill," Stefan looks over his shoulder to tell me.

"He couldn't save the film?" I question, confused. Stefan reaches underneath the tabletop where the funny looking microscope still rests. I hear the click of a switch or button engaging and a lightbox built into the surface of the workstation illuminates his features from below.

"The film in Sarah's camera was jammed pretty bad," He explains. "Some of the frames were damaged just from wrestling with it. Zach cut off what he could get free and went ahead and developed it, but he didn't think there was anything useful in them." I step up beside Stefan to get a closer look at two strips of negatives taped to the luminous desktop. One is three frames wide and the other four—and a half. Both pieces are warped and bent in several places, struggling against the tape to collapse into a buckled mess.

"But you found something?" I breathe with reluctant awe. I'm still trying to discern anything other than the dark focal point of the bonfire from the tiny negatives of Sarah's pictures.

When Stefan doesn't reply, I look up and meet his eyes. They're brighter thanks to the extra light source and fixed on me. His brow is furrowed. The lines it draws in his pristine and youthful face fold up into creases with ease as if the skin is following a pattern created by frequent use—like the lines around the corners of Damon's mouth. In his brother's case they paint a provocative grin, while on Stefan they pinch his whole face into an expression of abject misery. Dread crawls up the back of my neck in bolts of electricity that pull at the short hairs. "Stefan?"

"I think I know who took Sarah."

"What?" I whisper. Stefan's face seems closer to mine than before. His pain has an unexplainable gravity that pulls my torso in towards his. I wrap my arms around my middle and exhale. "How?" I manage to ask.

Stefan takes a step back, allowing me more access to the light table. I gulp a deep breath. He picks something up off of the counter and my eyebrows arch when he extends it to me. I take it though I have no idea what to do with it—some sort of cup with an eyepiece.

"It's a magnifying glass," he answers my puzzled expression as I roll it between two fingers. He gestures to the negatives. "Take a look. These three in a row here." He indicates three of the frames in the longer strip.

I pause to observe the magnifying glass before deciding cup-side down is my best bet. I place it over the negatives and lean over to take a closer look. It takes me a moment to adjust to the backwards nature of the values before I can piece together what I'm looking at. The dark bonfire illuminates the faces and glass bottles of the surrounding revelers with shadows. The encircling trees on the edge of the clearing disappear into the bright oblivion of the night. All of the pictures in this strip are of the campsite, from early after our arrival. I pull my head back and look at Stefan.

"It's the bonfire," I say with doubt. He nods and then indicates one of the frames.

"Start here," he assures. I lean back over to take a closer look. Bonfire. Drunk teenagers. Woods. "Now look to the far left. There's a figure there, just at the edge of the trees." After a brief search, I pin down who Stefan's talking about. He's farthest from the fire. Half of him bleeds into the white of the darkness, but some of the light from the flames catches his face and darkens his profile. I can't discern many features, but maybe once the picture is printed—

"You recognized him from this?" I look up to ask Stefan. He just gestures back at the lightbox.

"Now, look at the same spot in the next frame."

I move the magnifier over and take another look. It's almost the exact same scene, but where the lurking figure stood before, the image is distorted—a blur. Without prompting from Stefan, I slide my view a frame further. Nothing. He's gone. My head shoots up, and I twist around.

"Where'd he go?" I demand, as if there's a possibility of being supplied with a satisfactory answer.

"A better question might be 'How fast did he get there'," Stefan's voice is low and strained. His eyes are cast down at the film, but mine and their appetite for answers are drilling into him. "The blurry frame—Sarah could've been using a slower shutter speed to expose the film for longer, but then others in the picture would be blurry too. _Or_ , the camera was normal and the man in the photo was moving fast enough to distort the image— _inhumanly_ fast."

"A vampire," I confirm. Stefan looks up at me and nods. "But we already knew that," I sigh, frustrated.

Stefan's reluctant expression disagrees. "What?" I press.

"Zach can print the negative when he gets back, but I don't need him to, Elena. That man in the photo, he came to Mystic Falls because of me. He took Sarah to punish _me_." There's fear and anguish in his eyes when he tells me this. I still have doubts, but I can see the strength of his belief. He anchors to the edge of the table with white knuckles and stares with eyes that don't focus at the tiny strip of evidence.

"Who? Who is he, Stefan?" I watch him, but he doesn't answer. The countertop groans under the stress of his grip. I reach out to place my hand on his. It startles a subconscious part of myself that expects to be met with nothing when I feel his cool skin and tight muscles relax under my touch. Stefan looks at our hands first, and then back at me.

"Enzo," he answers. "His name is Enzo." It means nothing to me, but I know what it means to him. I'm familiar enough with them now to recognize someone's ghosts.

I yank my hand away at the embarrassing sound of my grumbling stomach filling the quiet of the room around us. I grimace at the thought of the untouched pan of pasta sitting in our fridge at home.

 **XXX**

I narrow my eyes and bite back a smile as I watch Stefan mince garlic with rapid precision from my perch on one of the barstools. A vampire is cooking me dinner—Italian I assume from what I can tell of the armful of ingredients I watched him gather from the fridge and cupboards. The Salvatore kitchen is in the same vein as the rest of the house—massive. There's a wall of east-facing windows and dark exposed brick to match the rich colored wood of the cabinets. The open hearth is enormous even by ostentatious mansion standards, the flue encased in a hooded stone mantle with an ornate raised 'S' carved into it. Between the island bar that stretches the length of the kitchen and the dark oak table in front of the fire, there must be enough seating for sixteen. It makes me feel small.

Stefan steps back to the farmhouse sink to rinse off two vine-ripened tomatoes, and I try not to sigh. He's been quiet since my impatient and audible stomach prompted him to invite me to stay for dinner. After the ill-timed interruption, I'm not quite sure how to broach the 'Enzo' subject again. I can't imagine going home and curling up in my bed for any length of restful sleep without some elaboration concerning the vengeful vampire Stefan is convinced took Sarah to punish him.

I consider the glass of dark red wine on the island in front of me I've yet to touch and pull it to my lips to take a reserved sip. Because I need something to do with my hands. I regret it with a wince as it hits my empty stomach and churns it.

"Too dry?" Stefan asks as he returns to his prep work across the counter from me. I shake my head in a polite 'no' when I realize he's referring to the wine. I set it back down and don't touch it again.

Stefan continues in silence.

Gah!

I used to think I was a patient person.

"You joined the football team," I remark, because pretending we're both normal teenagers in high school seems the safest place to begin. I even smile a genuine smile when the rhythm of his knife falters and he looks up at me.

"Yeah," he smiles back with warmth. "I'm starting in tomorrow's game." I lift my eyebrows in mock astonishment. I hadn't really expected anything less.

"I'm sure Matt and Tyler loved that," I add as I lean onto the counter, crossing my arms. "What made you change your mind?"

His movements still as he reflects on my question with a mixed expression. When he moves again, it's to slide his preparations down his side of the island to the stovetop set into its surface. He lights the heat under two skillets and coats both with a generous pour of olive oil.

"Before yesterday, I hadn't spoken of my brother to anyone in—" he starts, glancing up at me and then back down at the assemblage of our meal. His pause seems to be an effort to remember the last time he spoke of Damon, but instead of landing on a precise calculation he settles for, "—years." He lets out a breath and rakes one hand up and back through his styled hair. The other hand busies itself with sauteing garlic and stirring the sauce he's started. "Since I discovered how he he died," Stefan continues, "I've tried to avoid the things that remind me—I've avoided thinking of him much at all, but it isn't fair of me to shut it all out. Football was one of the last good things we shared, and it felt good to enjoy it again." It's the end of what he has to say, but like with the other Salvatores of my recent acquaintance, there's more he's not saying.

Stefan sets two decent sized breaded chicken breasts into the oil of one of the pans to begin them sizzling. He adjusts temperatures and gives the other pan's contents a stir and a taste. He still hasn't looked at me again.

"Second thoughts?" I ask after a few moments spent contemplating what he's left out. "It was too hard? Thinking of him again?" I almost whisper, not for Stefan's benefit, but because talking out loud about Damon flushes my body with a nervous anxiety. He flips the chicken. I look around the oversized kitchen, daring Damon to continue his stubborn exile in the face of the combined directions of his brother's thoughts and mine.

We remain the only two occupants, spectral or otherwise.

"I'd begun to hope," Stefan answers. He stops avoiding eye contact and meets mine in earnest. "That I could finally start to put my past behind me, have a fresh start. But I should have known that would be impossible in Mystic Falls."

"How'd he die?" It's something I've never been able to bring myself to ask the man himself. I've gleaned most of the circumstances from our exchanges, but it's been too morbid for me to raise the question to Damon. Did it hurt? Was it quick? Did my father make you suffer to avoid punishing himself for the careless mistake he'd made?

Stefan's soft green eyes widen in surprise. Oops. They don't have the intimidating intensity of Damon's. It doesn't resonate until this moment that asking that question of his brother instead might be less tactful. Stefan recovers without offense anyway.

"In a fire in Nineteen Fifty-Eight," is his succinct answer. He turns back to the skillet and removes the chicken to a glass baking dish and turns off the burner's heat. I furrow my brow.

Fifty-Eight?

Except he was alive enough in Nineteen Ninety-Nine for me to find him chained and screaming in the basement of my father's office. I open my mouth and then bite my bottom lip against any contradiction I might offer. My face colors with the uncomfortable burn of secrets before they blossom into lies. Stefan finishes preparing the contents of the baking dish with the sauce he's made and slices of fresh mozzarella before depositing it in a preheated oven across the kitchen. He sets the timer, and I try to compose a straight face before he turns back to see me.

"I'm sorry," I manage to choke out as he returns to the island, this time coming around to take a seat on the barstool next to mine. He leans his arms onto the counter with a sigh, before looking at me with a pained smile.

"In the early fifties, I was traveling overseas. It had been years since I'd seen my brother and an even longer estrangement before that encounter. I got word from Joseph—Zach's grandfather—who was living in this house at the time. He was looking for both of us." He takes my almost untouched glass of wine from in front of me and empties it in two deep swallows. "Can I get you something else?" he asks with an apologetic grimace. "Soda? Water?" I decline with an understanding shake of the head and watch him pour another generous glass from the bottle.

"When I showed up in Mystic Falls, Joseph was dead, stabbed in the neck with a highball. Damon had beaten me home."

My foot slips from the rung of the stool followed by an audible gasp of breath.

"He killed him? Why?" I ask. Stefan looks at me, searching my face. I'm not sure what for—fear, maybe. Disgust?

"I blamed him. The circumstances under which we'd become vampires had put us at odds more times than not. I believed Joseph's murder to be an example of my brother's efforts to flaunt his disregard for human life while I struggled tirelessly to preserve it. I cleaned up his mess and left Mystic Falls." Stefan stops to take a more reserved sip of the wine. His eyes drift from mine.

I look down at my hands in my lap and frown. It's not the vicious red eyes and writhing skin of a monster that Stefan's story recalls, but the low timbre of Damon's voice because I couldn't look at him as he told me I'd been wrong to assume he'd ever been a good man.

"For years, I believed Damon's actions to be a message: to stay away. I resented him for my loneliness,"Stefan continues, his voice sinking further under the weight of his intangible burden. "But I obeyed. I took for granted the only luxury vampirism had ever given us—time. Perhaps if we had been limited to human lifespans, it would have forced us to reconcile our differences." I look up to watch as Stefan presses his brow to his palm for support. "Either way," the words rumble in his chest, "Damon was already dead."

"What?" I breathe, unable to restrain my confusion. I lean onto the bar to look at him, and Stefan's eyes flick up to mine from the bowed position of his head.

"Joseph had a horrible gambling problem, and in Nineteen Fifty-Three, he lured us home to a trap. He'd sold us out to an elitist secret society calling themselves Augustine, operating out of Whitmore College. They hoarded their knowledge of the supernatural and passed it on to members recruited through family and the college, not unlike the Founders' decendants here in Mystic Falls. Only, they took it a step further." Stefan stops for a breath that triggers the ominous sinking of my stomach. Not only was my father a founding family member, Whitmore was his Alma Mater.

Does Stefan know about my dad? My heart starts to gallop, and Stefan flashes a concerned look in the direction of my chest.

Wait. No. He thinks Damon died fifty years ago. The throbbing of my blood in my own ears slows. Stefan jerks his eyes away in a movement rapid and uneasy enough to be called suspicious.

Is he blushing?

I follow his former line of sight. I sit up and give the neckline of my maroon tank top a self-conscious tug when I realize the change in my heartbeat had drawn Stefan's eyes to an advantageous view down the front of my blouse.

I clasp my hand in a fist over my breast as my treasonous heart starts back at it. Its fueled by a reminder of the fear I should feel sitting here alone with a creature who craves the blood pumping faster through my veins and the excitement I shouldn't feel at the prospect of him being attracted to something more than just my blood.

Idiot. I have to deliver myself a silent reprimand for both: forgetting the first and entertaining the second.

Stefan doesn't look back at my chest—or you know, any other part of me at all. He clears his throat to continue his tale.

"When Damon arrived home first, he sprung Joseph's trap. He resisted, killing Joseph in the process, but Dr. Whitmore, a member of the college's eponymous family and the Augustine who recruited Joseph to set the trap, took the distraction as an opportunity to overpower my brother with more vervain. He took Damon alive, kept him prisoner, and used him for research through _dissection._ " Stefan's voice breaks off here with disgust and pain. I don't blame him. The word has both the delicacy of a euphemism and the evocativeness of graphic details. It stirs the guilt in my gut into nausea.

 _Damon._

It's the closest thing I can actually get to calling his name out loud, but he doesn't appear. Stefan's eyes are heavy and far away.

"He was there five years before he attempted an escape with the other vampire imprisoned with him. They pulled it off, only they started a fire in the chaos. His cellmate escaped, but Damon was caught in the flames." The absence of the rugs and curtains that litter the rest of this house punctuates his words instead of softening them. Silence fills the cavernous room around us with finality.

Stefan is brought back from the distant place in his mind at the touch of my hand on his. It takes the way his eyes dart to mine full of questions and doubt for me to consider that this is the second time tonight I've touched him. Perhaps it's not the best idea to supplement my desire to comfort Stefan's pain with my own desperation to connect.

Maybe there was a moment when I thought of Stefan as an attractive step towards a possible future—the brief window when his mystique was of the normal new-kid variety. I've since given up considerations of anything with the realistic possibility of a desirable outcome. My masochistic heart is set on the unattainable touch of another.

I try to pull my hand back after applying a gentle squeeze of comfort to ease the awkwardness of my extracting it. Stefan lengthens my grip by returning it and looks up at me with gratitude that makes me feel worse for pulling away.

"How did you know?" It's a question I could've asked earlier if I hadn't interrupted us both with my inappropriate hand holding. I place my hand in my lap and clutch it with the other.

Stefan takes a moment to register the question. A new wave of darkness in his features prefaces his answer.

"I didn't think of looking for my brother for years—decades after we parted. I ran from Mystic Falls ashamed of him and then reveled in the peace I achieved in his absence before I began to worry that something was wrong. By the time I started to look for him, none of the few lasting contacts he'd made had heard from him in as long. I'd given up when the other Augustine captive found me and told me everything. That was—" a breath, "—Eighty-Six. Thirty years too late."

All the horrible pieces click into place, forming the cruel realization that it hadn't been too late. Damon didn't die in the fire as Stefan believed. He survived, fallen back into the clutches of his captors, tortured for the interim while my father grew up, became a doctor, joined Augustine, and inherited Damon as a test subject. He persisted, just to be undone by the misplaced desire of a little girl to help him.

I wince from the painful position my knowledge twists me into. There is no solace for Stefan to find in the thirteen years of captivity that followed the news of his brother's death before my father killed Damon on my behalf. Right? It would be kinder to say nothing. Except, what I know bubbles violently in my stomach and leaves the putrid taste of dishonesty in the back of my throat.

Silence would be the kindness, justifiable, if it weren't for Damon—Damon and his degree of deadness, teetering on the precipice of being _dead_ -dead and my position as his only voice among the living. It may be too late for them to share a life together, have a drink at a bar, play football on holidays, for awkward masculine physical displays of affection—

But for goodbye? Peace? Closure? I would give anything for one last conversation with my mom and dad.

I open my mouth but choke on the words. Tears burn in my eyes but don't escape. Stefan watches me with an unreadable anticipation.

I can't.

I don't want to betray my promise to Damon. I don't want to blemish my father in someone else's eyes. I don't want to admit my own role in the loss of his brother. All of that.

And I just want to keep Damon here.

I close my mouth and offer a compassionate smile that spills two streaks of tears over my raised cheeks.

"It's not your fault, Stefan." They're empty words, but I try to fill them with weight of everything else I wish I could offer him. "Your brother wouldn't blame you." That's a kind lie. I can't say with certainty that Stefan doesn't make the list of people Damon blames for his death. There's only the venom I've heard in Damon's voice as it wrapped around my father's name and the resentment I've seen in his eyes on me as proof that if Stefan's name does make the list, there's at least two names ahead of his. That has to be good enough.

I wipe away the wet tracks on my cheeks and steel my constitution enough not to replace them.

"Maybe." Stefan's voice is thick. Our barstools are swiveled in towards each other and the force of a gravity only felt by him pushes him in closer to me. His eyebrows cast a shadow over his eyes. "But Enzo _does_."

Hold on.

"Enzo?"

Stefan nods. He lifts his eyes, seeking something in mine. Redemption? Salvation? Whatever it is pulls me into the same relentless grip of gravity that has him.

"The vampire imprisoned in Augustine with Damon. He blames me for not doing more to avenge my brother, for not coming for him in the first place."

"Oh." It comes out as a surprised breath. Stefan casts his eyes downward in defeat.

Stop giving up, dammit. A rush of frustration pushes my hand forward and hooks a finger underneath his chin. Your brother is dead, and he fights against _everything_. I pull his face up so he has no choice but to look at me. His lips part with a breath.

"Then Enzo took Sarah to punish you. That means she's still alive?" I prompt.

My hand falls back to my lap, but Stefan's eyes remained locked on mine. I'll have to deal with you later, you insubordinate limb.

"She has to be; otherwise, what would be the point?" There's a renewed strength in his assertion, almost as if he's beginning to believe himself.

"Good," I tell him with a nod. "Then we'll find her." There's more optimism in my voice than I have, but I need him to believe it. I need it to be true.

Stefan's face lifts with awe. His eyes trace my face with the inspiration of a new discovery. What could he possibly—And then they fall on my lips.

 _Oh._

I pull in a rapid breath as he leans in closer. There's none of the tingling skin or dizzying rush that the body of his not-really-there brother has inspired at this same distance from mine.

I know this can't, in any way, be a good decision.

But, I just want—

His hand finds my shoulder. He pauses for a breath—my out. I freeze and my lips part—his invitation. He pushes his other hand under the curtain of my hair, tucking the gentle tips of his fingers behind my ear, and closes the distance.

—to connect.

His lips are tender and soft—tentative. Mine are dry enough to make them sensitive, and the acid of the wine and pasta sauce stings the corners of my mouth. My body thaws under his touch, yielding to let him support me. It's such a comfortable relief not to be the one holding myself up for just a moment. My eyes flutter closed.

Dark black. Startling blue. A sardonic smile.

Ice flashes across the surface of my skin and panic clenches a vice around my throat. My lips harden and the kiss never deepens past chaste affection.

It's not—

I take Stefan's hand at my neck and pull it down between us.

It just isn't—

I lean back and pull us apart, looking up to soften the rejection as best I can. Instead my vision focuses on the figure over Stefan's shoulder, standing in the threshold of the kitchen. His stricken expression contorts into a grimace, and his icy blue eyes are so cast in shadow by his furrowing brow that they turn a deep navy.

 _Damon._

I refocus my eyes on Stefan's nonplussed expression. I try to say something to explain, to salvage, but the hybrid of frenzy and horror that's disconnected my brain from sense machine guns the start of several unfinished sentences in rapid succession. I'm sure the result looks and sounds like something that requires an exorcism.

I'm. So. Stupid.

The timer on the oven fills the room with a sharp pitch and makes me jump. It propels me off of the stool.

"I—I have to—to go," I stutter.

I avoid looking at them both as I flee the kitchen and the house. My stomach growls in protest of the distance I'm putting between it and the home cooked meal I should be eating instead of kissing the brother of the ghost I'd rather be kissing.

 **Um, Soooo . . .**

 **There's that.**

 **Without giving too much away, I just want to assure you all that this story will never be anything other than a Delena story. The brief possibility of Elena developing feelings for Stefan passed when she discovered that he was the vampire that attacked Caroline. While she trusts him and sympathizes greatly with his grief and guilt, all this kiss did was cement for Elena her feelings for Damon. (And cause a bit of drama, but c'mon you wouldn't be a TVD fan if you weren't in it for the drama a little bit.)**

 **I hope it didn't put you off too much.**

 **Also Enzo revelations and a bit of alternate backstory. Let me know what you think and I'll try not to keep you waiting too long this time. Some more big plot developments coming up soon, and of course some Delena.**

 **Sam**


	18. I Got Soul

**Hey, everyone *peeks head up over the edge*. So this time the wait was really bad, I know. I'm sorry. Thanks so much for continuing to read my story. The reason it took me so long is that I had to finish writing about a 12,000 word arc before I could be sure how I was going to edit everything and break it up into chapters. So while this one is pretty short, I can guarantee this time that the next couple of updates will be timely and very eventful. In the meanwhile here's some Delena.**

 **Also the first Killers song I've been able to squeeze in. They're one of my favorite bands and this song just seemed to suit Damon in this chapter. Go to spotify and you can listen to the full You Become playlist as you read! Search You Become: A Delena Fanfiction Soundtrack.**

 **Happy Reading!**

 _I wanna stand up; I wanna let go_

 _You know, you know; no, you don't, you don't_

 _I wanna shine on in the hearts of man_

 _I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand_

 _Another head aches; another heart breaks_

 _I'm so much older than I can take_

 _And my affection, well, it comes and goes_

 _I need direction to perfection, no, no, no, no_

 _Help me out_

 _Yeah, you know you gotta help me out_

 _Yeah, oh, don't you put me on the back burner_

 _You know you gotta help me out_

 _ **I got soul** , but I'm not a soldier_

– _The Killers_

The late morning sun is warm, but the breeze that blows through the treeless portion of the Mystic Falls Cemetery cools the sweat on my brow and the back of my neck. It makes the damp baby hairs that never grow long enough to be pulled up into a ponytail tickle my skin. I pause just inside the main entrance to bend over with my palms pressed on my knees and pull in fast and deep breaths of crisp air. I pushed it hard on the last few minutes of my run after I realized my usual route—but delayed timing—through the square on a Saturday morning would put me in view of more casual onlookers than I'd like.

Running gives me a chance to clear my mind, separate myself from everyone else and what they need from me. It's much more effective at an hour before anyone in our unassuming hamlet deigns to hit the snooze for the first time. Today, that wasn't something my exhausted body or mind would allow. I slept in until nine and decided the best way to avoid my brother and everything _else_ was to go for a run.

Jeremy is still pissed at me for ratting him out to Jenna last night after she got back from the library. Jenna's making him stay in all night with her for a John Hughes marathon as punishment. It's safe to say that forgiveness isn't in the forecast of my near future.

He's safe. That's what I need right now.

A little _Sixteen Candles_ therapy sounds like bliss compared to the prospect of facing Stefan tonight at the game. And even that would be almost manageable if Damon would just show up so I could explain—

Yeah, that's not really feasible either. It would require me to have even a vague idea of what to say if he did. Instead, every time the curtains over my window seat are disturbed by a breeze or I pass someone in the square with dark tousled hair—

Thus, the detour.

Among the contemporary plots where the ground is even and the trees are sparse, something of a grid system can be construed from the crisscrossing paths that carve the groupings of gravesites into rectangles. I pass the volume of earth where my parents rest, but I don't stop.

I breach the dry creek bed that marks a natural boundary between the manicured resting places of the residents who still receive visitors from the land of the living and those who've fallen out of memory. It's the same bank where I skinned my knee, where I first acknowledged Damon. Before today, I've never ventured beyond it.

Nestled into the woods, the headstones and monuments of the old cemetery sprawl out towards and beyond the boundaries of the town. They sink backwards in time, littered among the trees, their age denoted by the degree of erosion and neglect. There's no curator, no groundskeeper or guard—only ancient trees and confusing runs of wrought iron fence that mark arbitrary boundaries outgrown by the creeping territories of the dead.

I trip over one of the multitudes of tree roots that dip in and out of the earth like fictional sea monsters. An audible gasp escapes me, but I catch myself and continue on with a more careful step. The names carved in the stones I pass are all unfamiliar, many of them obscured and illegible.

I'm lost. In more ways than the obvious.

I slow near to a stop, closing my eyes and taking in a long, deep breath. With eyes open again, I pivot in place to really look at my surroundings. Following the path of the deceased has been a direct one, except I've started to notice arms, small intimate groupings, breaking off from the main body of markers. I've been afraid to investigate a path that would entrench me further in misdirection, but a familiar name on one of the stones makes me abandon the secure grasp of sense and reason.

I can only see part of it through a layer of trees: _eppe_ in raised stone letters at the top and _vatore_ at the base. It lures me deep enough into this more private and disconnected niche of the graveyard to discern the name in it's entirety: _Giuseppe Salvatore_. I know the name from Johnathan Gilbert's journals; he was my ancestor's friend, a founder, Stefan and Damon's father—their murderer. That part wasn't in the journals. Of the volumes I've read, Jonathan's chronicling is all rather postmortem where it concerns the events of most interest to me. Fell's Church was ashes and the Salvatore patriarch buried when he took a pen to the oldest I have from 1865.

I step past the old weathered gravemarker to look to the woods beyond. There's a short natural trail made by the absence of trees. More stones and memorials line the sides of the disguised path until it concludes at the front step of a mausoleum. I halt amid the clearing as my eyes trace the family name above its door. A flash of the humiliation I've been struggling not to think of chills my body and makes me shiver.

I close my eyes against the dark stone of the building and the Italian surname carved in it. My lack of sight only assaults my vision with startling successive memories: Damon's expression as I pulled away from kissing his brother, his bright blue eyes wide and sparkling with hope as I promised I would help him release Katherine, the tightness of his jaw after he discovered I'd been pretending I couldn't see him.

I wrench my eyes back open, refusing to let the slideshow on the back of my eyelids continue to play out. I spin around, determined to begin to find my way back and out of the cemetery. Gasping, I have to scramble backwards from the very presence of the man haunting every aspect of my life. He advances on me faster than I can retreat.

"Stop it!" Damon orders. His face is closer than I ever thought it would be again. "Stop thinking about me! Stop calling me! Just—" I step back again, desperate to find relief from the harsh intimacy of his ire, but whatever distance I create he is just as quick to eliminate.

My body stills as he breaks from his demands to focus for the first time on our surroundings, pulling back to take in the secluded alcove of the graveyard. My momentary relief at the space he provides is flooded with the panic of embarrassment as he recognizes our placement and rage renews in his features. "What are you doing?" He presses, though he maintains the breathing room he afforded.

"I didn't mean to intrude—" My brain struggles to explain his discovery of me here. He doesn't wait for me to arrange something intelligible.

"Did my brother's uninspired command of _sucking face_ strike you dumb?" My jaw slackens with the escape of all the breath in my lungs. My cheeks flush and burn with mortifying intensity. I don't know what part of me thought pretending our last encounter never happened would encourage Damon to do the same. "What are you doing out here? Or did you forget your last trip to the cemetery?"

I begin to prepare a more coherent response when my mind catches up to his reprimands and all that comes out is an ungraceful, "What?" A flicker of something I shouldn't encourage flares in my chest at the thought of him worrying about me, but then bristles at his suggestion that I'm too foolish to look out for myself.

Damon sneers as he takes a step back and looks away. "You're doing a very good impression of vampire bait for someone who knows there's a vampire on the loose." His eyes fall on his father's grave and the contempt in his features deepens.

"It's daylight, Damon."

His eyes snap back to mine.

"My brother's not the only vampire with supernatural sunscreen, _Elena_." His mocking voice wraps around my name. I stand silent as a fresh wave of fear in my gut acknowledges that he has a point. Damon shakes his head in dismissal of the argument. "Nope. You know what?" He throws his hands up in frustration and surrender. "Nowhere in the afterlife handbook does it say I have to give a shit. Do what you want."

The line of his smirk and the manic combination it creates with his other contemptuous features are pressed into my vision like an afterimage even though he's already gone. An incredulous puff of breath escapes my chest as I furrow my brow. My hands hang open and suspended in front of me.

What the—?

"Really?!" A bird startles and takes noisy flight. "Uggh! You can't just have the last word and then—Poof!—just disappear, you idiot!" My voice scrapes against my throat as I raise it against the empty forest. The frustration of helplessness sets a flame under all the things I've been burying.

I pull in loud breaths, waiting.

"Dammit, Damon!" I propel myself forward, the way I came, with violent stamping strides.

 _Who does he think he is? I didn't ask for him to show up and complicate the shit out of my life, the smug ass—him and his immortal love life drama!_

I give all my buried frustrations Damon's face as I stomp through the old cemetery, letting them boil into a satisfying rolling anger.

 _I don't have to care. I don't! If he doesn't care, then I don't either. He doesn't have to be my problem any—_

I turn the corner on a copse of trees with a hysteric liberation and panic expanding in my chest. I'm startled to a halt, desperate to strangle a high-pitched squeal I've already let escape. I wince at the sight of Damon with his arms crossed and his back pressed against the nearest tree. The frenzied and unpredictable freedom that had begun to blossom in my breast at the thought of releasing all my cares and attachments condenses back into its home. Instead of a burden, it feels more like an anchor, buried heavy in my heart.

I sigh.

"Go on then." His expression is even, aloof, set in an annoyance. "Don't let me poof off with your last word," he says as he pushes off the tree and starts walking. I follow, relieved that he seems to be more than familiar with the way out.

"Look, I still intend to keep my promise," I tell his back. It comes much easier that way. "I never meant for you to think I didn't; I just got overwhelmed. I will go to Bonnie. I will. I just need to resolve this thing with Sarah first. I'm sorry to make you wait more than you already have, but I think we need your help." Even shielded from the intensity of his eyes, I have to swallow against a thick lump in my throat.

Damon's quiet extends long enough to feed my doubt before he responds. "How, Elena? I'm still a ghost." His voice shows no emotion, but the surrender in his question is enough.

"You can't just find Sarah, right?" I have to watch my feet to be able to keep pace with him. I ask the question for confirmation, stalling what I really need to ask.

"Not unless she decides to start having happy thoughts about a dead great-uncle she's never met," he shoots back.

"What about the vampire who took her? If you knew him, would you be able to find him like you do me or Stefan?"

Another extended silence.

This time, not being able to see his face is driving me crazy. I'm not patient enough to wait for an answer. "Stefan thinks it was Enzo. That Enzo is trying to punish him for letting you die." More silence. "Why didn't you tell me about Augustine, Damon?" I continue in a whisper.

When Damon comes to a sudden stop, I trip on a tree root in an effort to follow suit. I throw my weight backwards to keep from stumbling forward through him and land painfully on my tailbone. He turns back after I let a few curses fly. From this angle, the creases in his brow seem more sharp and severe, but his hand extends in an instinctive jerk. I overexaggerate my effort to cover for him as he pulls it back to his side, and I rise unaided.

"It didn't have anything to do with you," he says with little consideration. Instead, his expression is unfocused and faraway.

Lingering anger froths in my chest at his dismissal. "It does! My dad—"

"Is dead. They're all dead now." He cuts me off. It stings, but Damon has already moved on. "Are you sure?" His eyes snap back to mine with the question, and I let my other concerns fall away.

"That it's Enzo? Stefan is. He found him in Sarah's film." My words confirm it for him and Damon sets his features with a strange, vacant determination.

He turns back on the path towards the modern plots and starts with an even quicker pace than before. "Let's go." His voice is hard.

"So you believe it's him, then?" I run to keep up with him. "Damon, hold on—" I gasp as the toe of my sneaker catches another root, and I lurch forward after him.

"No, Elena," in the same hard voice, "You keep up. I was serious about your stupid streak, and Enzo is one of those lucky vampires with a daylight ring—SPF immortal." He lifts his left hand in the air so I can see the back of it and wiggles his middle finger so the sun catches the silver setting of the ring he wears there—the same one his brother wears. "You shouldn't be out here alone."

"Wait, that's how—" I trail off as I sacrifice my pride to increase my speed, breathing in deep breaths with more audibility and less dignity. "So do you think you could?" I huff. "Find him?" I'm too busy concentrating on staying with him to discern if he's avoiding the question or contemplating his answer. "Damon?"

"I don't know," he responds immediately, sharp enough for me to recognize his frustration. "It can work both ways," he starts again after a pause. "At least, with people I knew before—not too many of them left—but the last time I saw Enzo he was having a not so pleasant exchange with my brother. Enzo's girl had kicked him to the curb over his little Augustine revenge missions, and he was taking it out on Stefan. Enzo flipped his switch, and Stefan hasn't tried to settle down in one place until now."

There's not even any exertion in his voice. Curse Damon and his ghostly endurance. We reach the even ground across the creek. It's easier now to keep up, but he still doesn't relent.

"Flipped his switch?" I ask after I catch my breath. Now that I'm alongside him, I can see him grimace.

"Becoming a vampire . . . Intensifies everything. When that's grief or loneliness, it can be difficult to deal with—" His voice is tight. "There's a switch you can flip in your brain. Turns it all off—everything but the predator and the blood. The only thing you feel is physical pain or pleasure." We slow as we reach and cross the threshold between the cemetery and the Main Street sidewalk. My strides and breaths come easier now, automatic, but no words follow. How do I even— "If he's still like that, then I doubt I'll be able to find him," Damon finishes, and it lingers between us. I nod and continue down the sidewalk giving awkward and forced smiles to neighbors.

We walk in silence until we reach my front porch. It's later than I intended to stay out, and I need to get ready for the pep rally. I climb the steps, and Damon follows, but he hesitates at the threshold without an invitation. As if he's ever needed one before. I raise my eyebrows as I meet his eyes.

"I'll try," he says as his eyes narrow with uncertainty, "but I'm not much more than a scout. Do you and my brother's hero hair have a plan for what happens next?" My lips part, my teeth clenched with the inability to find an answer. "Because even if you find him and catch him, that doesn't mean Enzo will tell you where the girl is. And Stefan never could stomach torture."

Like that's a bad thing.

My stomach twists with disgust and inadequacy. Damon must see it in my face, because his eyes soften on mine, and he sighs.

"Quit traipsing around the woods alone until you figure it out." He flares his eyes and the sympathy there is covered again in postured nonchalance like always. "Next time, take your boyfriend."

My brow twists with confusion and then unfurls again with shock as I realize who he means. Warmth crawls up my neck.

"Stefan and I—We're not—We didn't—" I cover my face with my hands and growl with frustration. I yank my hands down, balling them into fists at my sides. "We're friends!" I burst out, more frantic than I meant, but a complete sentence.

Damon rolls his eyes, the beginning of a smirk playing on his lips before he turns away from me.

"Whatever, Elena," he says with his back turned to me. "Just quit hanging out in the cemetery like you belong there. You're not dead yet."

He starts down the stairs, wiggles his fingers behind him in a wave, and disappears as he descends the next step.

 **So there's the beginning of the aftermath of the previous chapter's kiss and a renewed partnership between Damon and Elena to find Sarah and Enzo. Let me know what you think, and look out soon for the next update.**

 **I appreciate all of your reviews/support/favorites/follows/reads so much!**


	19. Looking for Something Right Behind You

_**A belated present for Father's Day/Damon's Birthday. Did you guys know Damon's birthday was June 18th, four days before Elena's? It seems like it was always during the hiatus time jumps between seasons, and I always wondered if any other characters ever knew or if Damon liked keeping it to himself. Almost every other character specifically celebrated their birthday on an episode, so in my head Damon would always be sensitive about celebrating his birthday, especially after he became human, Lol. If you look back at earlier chapters of this story, there's a reason why June 18th is the one day that Elena notices Damon doesn't visit her when she's logging his visits in her journal.**_

 _ **Anyway, new chapter! I wanted to put this up now, because I made you guys wait so long for the last one. This one is bookended between lyrics from two songs this time, and the title of the chapter is a mashup from both. So, does anyone else love really interesting/creepy/haunting/sad covers of old classics or familiar pop songs?**_

 _ **I do.**_

 _ **So the lyrics from these songs, while representing the content of the chapter also make more sense with the tone of the specific covers I picked. If you want to get a real feel for the chapter while your reading, head over to spotify, search You Become: A Delena Fanfiction Soundtrack and give Marilyn Manson's cover of Sweet Dreams and Lorde's cover of Everybody Wants to Rule the World a listen.**_

 _ **Thanks again for all your love and support. I'll shut up now. Happy reading!**_

 _Sweet Dreams are made of this_

 _Who am I to disagree?_

 _I've traveled the world and the Seven Seas_

 _Everybody's **looking for something**_

 _Some of them want to use you_

 _Some of them want to get used by you_

 _Some of them want to abuse you_

 _Some of them want to be abused_

— _Marilyn Manson (Originally: Eurythmics)_

The first home game of the year is always the most well attended. Parents, girlfriends, Booster Club members, little brothers, former Timberwolves trying to relive their not-so-glory days, loners and stoners ironically rebelling against establishment, they all make it out while there's still the smallest chance at a winning season—or beer. With Stefan on the team, it might give us some hope for Homecoming this year.

I blush with dread and hug my arms around the stripe of bare abdomen my cheerleading uniform leaves exposed. I walk through the throng of people mingling over the patch of grass behind the bleachers where we have cheer practice and the adjacent parking lot. When my parents were still alive, we showed up at the crack of mid-afternoon with them. Dad would wear an embarrassing apron and grill hot dogs on the tailgate of our station wagon with the ancient camping stove. Mom would stand to the side giggling with Kelly and Jenna, blooming humbly under the stolen flirtatious smiles and touches of my dad.

I tighten my grip and search the crowd. This year I stalled as long as possible, lounging on the couch in my uniform with Jenna and a begrudging Jeremy while Anthony Micheal Hall triumphantly displayed Molly Ringwald's panties above his head. If I'm lucky, it will pay off, and the sun will go down before I run into Stefan. It's complicated enough that I have to come up with a tactful way to explain why I ran out on our kiss. If he brings up Enzo and Sarah, I have no idea how to broach my method for finding him or that my tentative plan for when we do includes a Love-Hewitt style cathartic intervention between an emotionless vampire and the dead brother Stefan doesn't know I can see.

I wish I could talk to my mom.

I dodge a group of freshmen girls with their arms linked and their faces lit up with carefree gossip. One scoffs in my direction as I tear my impatient focus from the pinks and oranges of the sky just in time to avoid collision.

"Sorry," I call back as they pass in the opposite direction already reinvested in themselves. I look ahead of where I'm wandering and catch the attention of the last pair of green eyes I wanted to spot me. I jump in place and bite my lip as I execute a graceless spin back in the direction of the paper mache effigy in a Lions jersey. Standing near the back of a black luxury sedan is a short, dark-skinned cheerleader with her head bent over her cellphone. Leaping towards her, I hook my arm in hers. "Bonnie!" She looks up first in surprise, then smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Walk with me." I tow her small form alongside mine with ease in whichever direction is furthest from where Stefan saw me.

"Sure." She hums a small laugh. I slow down as we become encased in people, all of whom I'm certain weren't victims of my kiss and run. I turn to Bonnie who lifts her phone and sighs.

"Caroline."

I lift an eyebrow. "She still doesn't know you've been overthrown?"

Bonnie shakes her head. "The hospital is driving her crazy, but she gets released tomorrow." Even though I'm dreading the octave of her voice when Caroline discovers the state of her squad, I nod and smile. I've missed my friend, and I'm glad she's okay. "So, what's up? Who're we avoiding?" Bonnie spares a curious glance at the crowd.

I grimace as I say Stefan's name, and her expression startles with reserved concern. "No," I try to dispel her worries, "nothing dangerous. He invited me over last night, you know to help with Sarah, except dinner with my brother was a non-starter—"

"Oh, I'm sorry Elena." She knows how much I wanted to start to reconnect with Jeremy.

A defeated shrug of the shoulders, and I continue. "—So I was starving, and Stefan made me dinner, and he opened up to me about all this guilt he has over Damon's death. I was trying to comfort him, and . . . He kissed me."

"And—"Bonnie presses, reserving her reaction.

"And I kissed him back." I wince. ". . . And then I ran away."

"Oh, Elena." She gives my arm a reassuring squeeze, but her unreadable expression has me longing for Caroline, whose typical reactions—either disgust or thrill—always clarify her exact opinion.

"I just can't face him yet."

Her sympathetic eyes search mine with uncertainty. She hesitates to ask,"But you like him?"

"No, I—" I shake my head as if it's obvious. But why would it be? "We're friends." I purse my lips. "Or at least that's what I want." Something of what Bonnie thinks starts to show in the furrowed lines of her concerned expression. "But I trust him." Her lips press into a thin line with what she isn't saying. "Bonnie, what is it?"

Her hand ghosts to her neckline where the amber talisman is absent. "I just have this strange feeling," she breathes, "about Stefan." I look up from her chest and meet her eyes with my own concerned frown.

"Your crystal," I remark. "Bonnie, is everything okay? I know I've been distracted, but if you need me . . . ?" She nods and smiles, letting her hand drop from her collar.

"I had to give it a rest. It can be overwhelming, and my crystal, it makes my magic stronger, but it also intensifies all the psychic stuff too. You know yesterday I couldn't stop scribbling these numbers all over my history notes, and then I still have this feeling like I'm being watched, and the dreams—" She trails off with a hollow laugh that does little to reassure me. "I'm sure the Stefan thing is just getting jumbled up with everything. Just—" She takes both my hands and lifts them with hers between us. "Be careful."

I open my mouth to respond, but she drops our hands to turn and face an approaching member of the team. I pull in a deep breath and then release it when I recognize Matt's jersey number. The soft blue of his eyes meet mine, distracted and filled with worry, before they flick to Bonnie.

"Hey, Elena. Bon," he says, though he only addresses Bonnie. "Have you seen Vic around anywhere?" His tone is light, but it does little to mask his actual concern. Bonnie smiles and shakes her head before looking to me.

"Not lately. Why? Is something wrong?" I ask which earns me eye contact for about a millisecond before he refocuses on Bonnie. He shoves his hands in his jean pockets, something he does when he doesn't know what to do with them.

"I just thought she'd be here." He shrugs, disappointed. "She hasn't come home the last couple of nights, which isn't _not_ normal, but Robert usually closes down dining at the Grille early on account of everyone being at the game. But I can't find her, and then I thought about that Sarah girl. She's still missing, isn't she?" My heart jumps, and I try not to alarm them by letting it show on my face how close to the mark he might be.

Bonnie looks at me with a silent pointed question—the same one I'm already considering.

But—No. Vicki has nothing to do with Stefan. Why would Enzo take her?

"No, not yet." Matt's complexion pales as he finally looks at me. "But I'm sure Vicki's okay," I'm quick to add. "Did you talk to Tyler?"

"Yeah." Matt nods. "They had a fight; he hasn't seen her. If you do will you tell her I'm looking for her?" He doesn't wait for a response before he starts scanning the crowd for the next person to approach.

Behind us, the bonfire flares to life, a signal for the team to line up and the rest of us to gather around. Matt turns in that direction, but I grab his hand to stop him. He looks down at our hands before looking back at me.

"I did see her Thursday. At lunch. She was walking across the quad. It looked like she was headed to the Pit." I squeeze his hand and let go. "I bet she just crashed with some friends. She always comes back, doesn't she?" Matt nods again.

"Thanks, Elena." He smiles before running to catch up with Tyler.

Bonnie doesn't comment on the exchange. She's rolling her eyes at her cellphone—another message from Caroline, no doubt. She wiggles it at me. "I'm gonna run this to the lockers. You need anything?" she offers.

Hmm? Oh, right. Still a cheerleader.

"Grab my poms?"

"Sure." She smiles before running off and leaving me alone in the converging crowd.

 **XXX**

"Elena? Elena!" I hear my name just as I watch Bonnie disappear around one of the outer buildings. I stop but don't look back at the voice that calls after me. I look up at the sky and splay my hand flat across my chest, trying to slow my heartbeat. The light of day has faded to dusk, but it doesn't matter. Stefan ran down the clock, and he deserves _an_ explanation if not _the_ explanation.

He comes around to my front instead of waiting for me to respond to his calls. "Hey." One side of his smile flexes. "I don't know if you saw me earlier, but I wanted to catch you before the game."

"Yeah." I blush and look away. "I needed to talk to Bonnie, but . . . Me too." I smile, mustering up the courage to look him in the eye. "I mean, I wanted to talk to you too," I clarify but struggle to find the way to start. Stefan's expression is hard to discern, but there's a momentary wrinkle of confusion and a curious narrow of his eyes.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay after last night. It was too soon, I know, and I'm sorry. If I overstepped . . ." His eyes widen with anticipation in that vulnerable way I knew they would. I try to keep smiling, but it feels more like a grimace now.

"No. It was nice." My smile widens into a genuine one for a moment, because there is still that part of me that saw the possibility of Stefan as something safe and new, something gentle but also exciting. "I'm sorry. I should never never have left like that—without explaining. I'm not really even sure now how to—"

"Elena, you don't have to—"

"No, I do." I roll my bottom lip with my teeth against this bubbling thrill in my chest I can't contain. "There's someone in my life that I tried to ignore, that I never understand." I go to push my hair behind my ear after forgetting it's already up in a ponytail and bite down again on my flesh to restrain a rebellious smile. "And the possibility of us doesn't even exist, but—" I gasp a deep breath, this desperate last attempt to pull it all back in. I can't admit this, can't breathe life into it, but it's too late; it's already slipped away to claim a life of its own.

It's real.

"But—" my blurry confessor says as he refocuses into Stefan. "It doesn't for us either."

The heat of shame pools in my cheeks, but I don't shy away from the disappointment and resignation in Stefan's eyes. "No," I confirm in a soft voice. Stefan is still and quiet. The death of the sun has cast his features in sharp shadows. My chest tightens with an uncomfortable ache.

He turns toward the bonfire. We're nearly alone now. "I should get going." His voice says he understands, but I can't see his face to decide if its true.

"Stefan," I say to stop him. "Enzo's wrong. You're _good_ ; you deserve happiness. We're going to save Sarah." His cheeks lift with a subdued smile.

"You have no idea how much that means to hear you say." His throat is tight, and the words sound thick and strained. "But you should leave it to Zach and me. I shouldn't have let you get so involved."

He couldn't have stopped me. I lift my chin.

"Don't push me out. I want to help."

"You've done so much already. It's too dangerous," he insists, like he takes personal blame for all of it.

Doesn't he know how stubborn I am?

"I don't care."

He'll just have to learn.

 **XXX**

I trace one of the massive poles surrounding the football field to its peak while I empty a paper water cup. A swarming cloud of insects is illuminated around the cluster of lights by the same white electric glow they lust after. I toss away the cup and look back at the crowds. Something about this used to give me such a thrill, the buzz of energy from the stands and the way the field gleamed in the night. It's all still there, same as it was before, but it doesn't vibrate through me anymore. I knew it the moment the coin toss ended, and we took the track in front of the bleachers. It's all as artificial as my smiles. It just doesn't matter.

Damn. Damon was right.

The Timberwolves have entered halftime at a lead for the first time in over a year. Tanner said nearly outright that it was thanks to Stefan at the bonfire rally, and I did get a small satisfaction from the scowl it grew on Tyler Lockwood's face. Honestly though, I think I'd be having more fun at home with Jenna, Jeremy, and The Breakfast Club.

I sigh and look to the field. The teams have forsaken it for the locker rooms replaced by the marching band weaving in and out of formations I can't appreciate from this angle. We're supposed to join them for the next song, a Beyonce routine Caroline choreographed last year that I hope my body remembers better than my head. I did alright with the sideline cheers, all the motions were still embedded in my muscles. That's all they really were though—motions.

A nervous swell of nausea returns. It's not eased by the sight of Tiki and Dana approaching me with their arms linked in an uncharacteristic united front. As soon as my mutual gaze confirms that I am their intended destination, Tiki's expression transforms into a satisfied sneer and Dana's an overplayed sympathy.

"Hey Teek, Dana," I shout over the roar of brass instruments. My smile doesn't quite rise to meet the enthusiasm of my voice.

"Oh, Elena, Dear." Dana unlinks her arm so that she can reach out with both and squeeze my shoulders in an awkward hug. "How are you?" She steps back to look at me with her head cocked to the side in patronizing pity.

"I'm good," I answer with doubt.

"Really?" Tiki kicks a hip out and rests the heel of her hand on the bony ledge. "'Cause it seemed like your mind was somewhere else out there."

"We could tell your heart just wasn't in it," Dana quickly translates Tiki's harsh ridicule into useless idiom.

"And we completely understand," Tiki continues, though her tone suggests the opposite, "What with our captain out of commission."

Dana nods. "It's affected us all," she says and places an open palm over her breast.

"But I'm sure it's been rough on you especially. And since you missed cheer camp, we think it's best you take a step back. You're unfocused and out of practice, and we have to think of what's best for the squad."

"Until you get back in the swing of things," Dana tacks on with a smile, the ineffective anesthesia to Tiki's unapologetic sting.

"You want me to sit out?" I frown. I'm not sure why I care, except their distinct though equally frustrating smiles are in competition for which one I wish I could slap off their faces first.

"Caroline agrees." My attention blurs too much for me to care which one said it.

"She said that?"

"She would if she could be here. She trusted us to _be_ her until she could return: W-W-C-D?" A nervous laugh escapes Dana as she says it.

"We're in charge." Tiki is impatient with Dana's sugarcoating.

I've already surrendered. I grab up my poms. "Sure, if you think its best," I mumble as I turn from the field.

 **XXX**

For the second time this week, I'm alone in the girls' Varsity locker room. Well, Damon didn't leave me alone for all that long last time. But he's not here now. I rub an errant tear track from my cheek.

Useless. There's no point in crying. There are so many more important things right now.

They're right. My heart isn't in it. I don't want to be here. Except, I still want them to want me here, I guess.

Silly. I laugh to shake away the tightness still in my chest as I trace the lockers down the row to mine.

As I reach for the lock, I hear the door open and turn back to see who it is. My heart jumps treacherous and premature, because who it wants doesn't make corporeal entrances. I wonder if he's found Enzo, if anything in my life could be that simple. Beyond that, I wonder, not for the first time, where Damon is when he isn't. Is he always somewhere, or is there an In Between? Soft, hesitant steps drive those thoughts away as they turn the corner on this row of lockers.

"Bonnie?"

"Hey." Her steps quicken, sure of their end. I bend my knees to accept her embrace. It's genuine, like her sympathy, but they still deliver a furious jab to my pride.

"You're missing halftime," I say with regret into the small crook of her neck.

"Ah, who cares." She pulls away. I give a glance to the locker on the other side of mine to indicate someone very specific. "Yeah, yeah. We can tell her Monday."

"Mmhmm." I roll my eyes as a grin tweaks my lips. "You wanna come over and watch a movie? We can throw popcorn at Jeremy."

Bonnie smiles wide. "Yeah, but let's stop at Bell's and grab some Rocky Road first."

My smile grows to match hers. "Sounds good," I agree. My chest swells with relief. It sounds more than good. I turn back to my locker to unlock it and grab my things. My elation shrinks into confusion as I grab the weight of the combination lock only for it to fall open unlatched in my palm. With a tug on the lock still hanging in its place, the whole metal door swings open.

"Bon?"

"Hmm?" she hums in response, busy with the combination on the locker next to mine.

"When you grabbed my poms before the game did you lock the locker back?" Her hand pauses on the dial of her own lock. She's still, except that she turns to look at me.

"Yes . . ."

 **XXX**

"I swear I locked it, Elena. I'm sorry." Bonnie holds the building's side door open while I pull one of my purse handles off my shoulder to look inside.

"Don't worry about it," I insist. "Nothing's missing. The latch is just broken or something. I'll take care of it on Monday," I tell her without looking up from my purse. The side door leads out into a narrow alley between the two athletic buildings. It's the quickest way to the parking lot that occupies the space between them and the field, but it's less than properly lit. I can't see anything in the darkness of my shallow handbag.

"Still, it's weird." I follow Bonnie's soft voice without looking up, but still can't see my keys. I look up so I can find my way out of the darkness without tripping and root around in my purse for something that feels metal and key-like or the rounded plastic of my fob.

After discovering my locker ajar, I checked for theft, but I don't have much of what could be considered valuable. My wallet remained and everything seemed untouched. I remembered leaving my phone in the console of my Escape after a momentary panic that it had been stolen.

We laughed it off, but there's a disquiet in my gut that our logical excuses have yet to ease. I'm near sure Bonnie feels it too. Otherwise, I wouldn't have to jog to catch up to her even with her petite figure and short strides putting her at a disadvantage. By the time I do, we're at the trunk of her Prius. It's not far from the smoldering and forgotten remains of the bonfire since she did her duty and arrived early to the rally.

"I'll bring you back to your car in the morning," she offers with a smile because she knows I don't feel like driving. But then, there's also something anxious in her eyes. We both want to get out of here, but I frown with guilt.

"I have to grab my phone from my car. Jenna will freak if I don't text her." Bonnie's expression looks pained as she considers what I say. "Come with me?" I ask expectant and nervous. Bonnie's reluctance is mine too. I'm parked in the overflow, which requires us to walk the length of the L-shaped lot and turn the corner to reach my SUV.

"You can message her from my phone," Bonnie tries to persuade me to stay. I grimace.

"I need it," I press, not willing to say that it has a lot to do with the fact that Stefan and Zach don't have Bonnie's number. Bonnie's face falls before she reforms it into stoic resolution, nodding in the place of words.

She joins my side and takes up a brisk pace again. My purse, still half hanging off my shoulder, bounces around as I do an awkward skip to match her. After my blind excavation of it turned up no result, I gave up the search. In the strange mixed light of the artificial lampposts and the moon, the task returns more urgent to the front of my mind.

I open my bag wide to let the light in and fall a bit behind as I examine its more visible contents. Keys, where are you? I slow down further to reach inside and push around my lip balm and sunglasses. Panic streams into the rhythm of my heartbeat. The gap between me and Bonnie grows as she crosses a row of vehicles to turn the corner.

"Hold on, Bon," I call. "I can't find my keys. They have to be in here, I mean—" My fingers tremble on the zipper of the inside pocket, the only place they could be concealed, but the only thing I put in there is loose change. I would've felt—I look up as Bonnie starts to walk back to meet me. There's some distance between us, but even in the darkness I can see the concern etched deep in her features. "Do you think someone took them?" I'm not sure I say it loud enough for her to hear.

What if it's Enzo? Stefan is right, and Enzo thinks he can use me as leverage against him? But what does he want with my—unless it was just to get me out in the open alone. My throat and chest tighten as my eyes dart around the darkness and land again on Bonnie.

"Bonnie!" My voice cracks as I shout for her. I gasp in a breath. "You were right, let's just go back."

Why is she just standing there? My knees shake as I step forward. "Bonnie?!" I approach her, close enough to see her vacant expression. She looks . . . Gone. She's staring off into the distance—behind me.

I yelp startled and swing around but I don't see anything. My hammering heart sounds like it's between my ears instead of in my chest. When I spin back, Bonnie is facing away, walking slowly around the corner towards the rest of the lot.

"Bonnie! Stop!"I jump after her. Before I can reach her, she turns behind the last of the row of athletic buildings on our right and disappears. I push into a run after her until—

The headlights of a vehicle streak in the distance.

The squeal of tires. The metallic crunch of metal.

A high pitched scream.

 _There's a room where the light won't find you_

 _Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down_

 _When they do, I'll be **right behind you**_

 _So glad we've almost made it_

 _So sad we had to fade it_

 _Everybody wants to rule the world_

— _Lorde (Originally: Tears for Fears)_

 **Um, so sorry about the cliffie and the lack of Damon, but I'll make up for it in the next one, which I'm really excited for you to read. Drop a review and let me know what you think. Concerned for Bonnie? What do you think's going to happen/what do you want to see happen, etc. I love hearing from everyone.**

 **You Become behind the scenes tidbit: since I used Lorde's EWTRTW cover, I thought I'd let you guys know that the beginning scene from chapter one that spawned this whole story was partially inspired by a cool AU fanvid done to this song on YouTube. It's by VampirkaYuka called damon + elena I'll be right behind you. If you're interested, go give it a watch. I love really well done fanvids and while jealous that I can't do the same thing (because I often imagine my own scenes acted out on screen and wish I could manip scenes from the show to create my own vision), I love using them for inspiration. If you have a favorite vidder that vids the fandom really well or just a specific video, review and let me in on the secret. :)**

 **The next update may not be as fast, but it won't be too long!**


	20. Sound

**Here's one I'm excited for you guys to read. Definitely some Delena in there for you. As always, I greatly appreciate everyone's support and feedback.**

 _Every second dripping off my fingertips_

 _Wage your war, wage your war_

 _Another soldier says he's not afraid to die_

 _I am scared; I'm so scared_

Just close your eyes

You'll be alright

Come morning light

You and I'll be safe and **sound**

 _A clock is ticking, but it's hidden far away_

 _Safe and **sound** , safe and **sound**_

— _Taylor Swift and The Civil Wars, Snow Patrol_

 _Help!_

 _Someone, please help!_

Fuck, I can't do this. I can't help—I don't know how to do this.

 _I can't breathe!_

 _Please, anyone!_

I pull the driver's side door of my SUV open and heave in breaths. Bonnie screeches at the sight I reveal from where she stands behind me. I shut my eyes, but it only makes it worse. I can hear the current rushing around me, feel the cold of the water rising up my legs. I gasp and look down, leaning heavily on the battered car door for support. All that's there is the debris scattered around us on the asphalt.

Dry.

The front end of the vehicle is wrapped around the cement base of one of the lot's lampposts. The top of the grill dented the metal pole where it starts to rise from the yellow painted cylinder, bending it over us at an ominous angle. Between the flickering of the damaged light, the deployed airbag, and the blood pouring from the head slumped over it, I can't make out the identity of the driver.

"Oh God!" Bonnie cries. "It's Chad Carpenter!"

Once she says it, I recognize the long hair. My hands extend to help him, but hover over his unconscious form, paralyzed.

What do I do?

 _Someone, please tell me what to do!_

I bite my lip before I turn back to Bonnie. "Call 911. Now!" Bonnie's eyes are wide as she nods and steps back from the car to pull out her phone.

When Bonnie's scream propelled me after her and towards this accident, this was the last thing I was expecting. Chad is in our class: Dana's boyfriend, a stoner, a bit of a jerk, but harmless. Why is he in my car? It doesn't make sense.

I push away Bonnie's voice as she talks with the dispatcher on the phone. There's so much blood. My hands ghost over his exposed shoulder, but I'm afraid to touch him.

I can't just stand here. I have to do something. I just—I need someone to tell me what to do.

I need someone now. I need—I need Damon. Wouldn't he just love another opportunity to tell me what to do.

I wrench my eyes shut against the image of Chad's glossy, red ear and the dark red liquid running from his chin.

 _Damon. Damon?_

 _C'mon, just show up and tell me how to fix this. Please. Please, Damon._

 _Damon!_

My eyes fly open at the buzz of electricity that crackles across my skin.

"How do you expect me to find Enzo with all your noisy interference?" a familiar deep voice grumbles. "I can't think when you're—Oh shit, Elena! What the hell happened?" He's at my right shoulder, peering into the cab of my mangled car. When I turn to face him, there are tears welling in my eyes. His glint dark blue in the unreliable artificial light. He reaches out for me, but I jerk my body backwards into the open door. His hands drop as he steps into enough light for me to catch the flash of rejection across his features. Before the moment passes, they harden. His eyes trace my body up and down, and I realize his assumption. My chest clenches.

I shake my head. "I wasn't in the car." Damon's brow furrows as he takes in our surroundings. He hovers momentarily over Bonnie who looks at me with confusion.

"Elena?" Her hushed question interrupts her conversation with emergency services and lingers in the darkness. I ignore her and turn back to Chad.

"I need to help him," I say as I reach out towards his shoulder. The sick dread that I felt from the flashes of my own memory have passed. I'm not alone. I'm not drowning. "I have to get him out of here, right?" My hand makes contact with Chad's limp form for the first time at his bicep. He's not that big of a guy. Maybe, if I get Bonnie's help.

"No. No. Stop," Damon demands. My hand jerks away immediately.

"What if he needs CPR? I can't just do nothing."

"If he's still bleeding, his heart's still pumping, and his skin's still all fleshy colored, but if he has spinal or neck injuries and you try to move him it could cause permanent damage." He says it with such authority.

I frown at him. "How do you—" He shakes his head in angry dismissal.

"What you need to do is stop his bleeding. Bit of a nasty cut on his forehead, but head wounds bleed a lot. It looks gorier than it is." He looks down my body again, this time in disapproval of my revealing uniform. I feel naked under his scrutiny. The unnerving feeling remains even after he turns his attention to Chad. "Take his shirt." He indicates the plaid button up. "Rip some of it away at the seam. C'mon, hurry." I dig my fingers into the seam of Chad's shirt at the shoulder. I apply more force than is necessary and the sleeve of cheap material comes away in one shred as I stumble back. "Wrap it around his wound and apply pressure. Hard." My heartbeat jumps. There's so much blood.

"Sometime today," Damon urges. I shoot forward and start wrapping the long strip of material around the wound on Chad's brow. "Try not to move his neck." I secure the sleeve carefully and press the heel of my hand over where the wound already begins to bleed through. The blood is warm and sticky against my skin. I swallow hard against a swell of nausea. My arm already aches at this angle. "Harder." Damon's voice is steel, but my shoulder isn't. Sweat is pricking at my brow. "You need better leverage. Up here." He gestures to the step runner at my shins. I step up onto it, pressing all my weight into the bloody shirt sleeve and look back down at Damon. I have a few inches on him.

My bottom lip trembles. He offers a nod of approval.

"What do I . . .?"

"Just hold it." The edge of his tone softens. "The Little Witch called the medics. It won't be long."

I twist my neck around so I can find Bonnie without releasing any pressure. She stands a few feet back from the car, silent with her cell still pressed to her ear. She watches us with worry but seems to have figured out the origin of my instructor. I turn back to the car, but try not to look at Chad.

I'm leaned inside the vehicle while Damon's arm extends over the arch of the open doorway to the roof. His head is bent and his torso overlaps my back without touching. It cages us in, like he's shielding us from the outside. My breath hitches from the proximity.

"I thought we went over this at the cemetery, Elena," he says in a gruff whisper. "What are you doing? When I agreed to help you, it was under the assumption that you were smart enough to stop putting yourself in unnecessary danger."

"It almost sounds like you care."

A smirk starts to curl his lips. It disappears for a resolute scowl. "This," he designates the scene, "is stupid. You shouldn't be out here."

My lips part, and I blow out a slow breath. Adrenaline wreaks through my body like waves ravaging the beach. I breathe through my teeth as they chatter from the tremors of my body. "Did you find him?" I stutter in seriousness.

Damon looks down. "I thought I was close—somewhere dark and quiet. I could hear breathing, but before I could figure out where it was, I was here."

My eyes widen, but I don't say anything. Damon's eyes narrow and flick up but don't reach eye contact, lingering on my lips. My breath catches in my throat. I look away at my hands over Chad's forehead, stark white but for the deep red welling up between my fingers. The blood has slowed, and his chest presses into the airbag with breath. Damon knew exactly what to do.

"How do you know how to handle all of this?" I finish my earlier question with awe on my breath this time instead of doubt. He sighs, his impatience with my questions returned.

"I was a soldier once."

"In the Civil War." I scoff. "How many automobile accidents did you come across then, huh?"

Damon meets my eyes and stares hard into them with his intense blue. "Do you really want the answer to that?" he dares. He should know by now that I'm done hiding from uncomfortable truths.

"Always."

"The Augustines—before your Dad's time—after Dr. Whitmore died, they passed me around to different members to use for their personal research. One of the PhD candidates was conducting her thesis on the effects and treatment of high velocity impact injuries." His eyes don't leave mine as the implication lands in my mind, but I don't flinch.

"You were a crash test dummy?" Damon's face crinkles in surprise. His body shakes with a chuckle a beat later and keeps the instant regret of my phrasing from transforming into self-ridicule.

"If you want to call it that," he answers. I don't want to look away before I can press him for more than what he lets surface, but I'm distracted by the approach of sirens in the distance.

I can't see Bonnie. Panic bubbles in my stomach.

"Elena! Elena!" I follow her voice until, twisting, I can see her through the rear window of the car. "There's someone else here!" she calls. She's moved around the crash site to the side of the car we couldn't see from our original approach. "Someone else is hurt! He was hit. The car hit him!"

My stomach drops out of my body.

 **XXX**

Bonnie's eyes widen at my suggestion. "I don't know, Elena. I can't—" Her voice trembles, but I don't wait for her to finish. I grab her wrist and tug her slight figure up onto the runner with little resistance. I pull my arm from Chad, and it aches with the relief of tension. I guide Bonnie's hand to the wound in replacement of mine. Though it remains in place when I release it, her arm slackens, ineffective. I grab the hand limp at her side and pull it up to join the other, both pressed under my blood caked palms over Chad's brow.

"Yes, you can," I insist as I look her in the eye. Her lip quivers with shock and fear, but she nods.

I start to remove my hands but Bonnie's not applying enough pressure on her own. I press back down to emphasize my demand. "Hard."

I let go so I can grab her shoulders to position her better over Chad's unconscious form. She jumps at my firm touch, but with a resolute expression, leans her weight into her task.

I jump down from the runner, leaving the smeared bloody impression of my hand on the bare skin of her arm.

 **XXX**

My knees hit the pavement next to the man's crumpled figure. I feel the impact ripple through my limbs, but I'm numb to any pain. I reach out for his shoulder, but jerk back as he groans and stirs.

He's alive.

"Miss? Miss, are you there?" a small directionless voice asks from Bonnie's discarded phone. "Emergency responders are arriving on scene." I try to trace the voice to the source, but the device is lost to the flickering darkness. Instead, I inch closer to the man's head, scooting on my knees. My eyes follow the length of his body, taking in the tattered clothes, blood, and twisted limbs.

Wrong. Broken.

The sirens are loud but they feel far away. Everything is distant except for this man and the silhouette that kneels beside us and says my name in a pained timbre that resonates through my chest louder than any siren.

I look up at him for guidance, but he offers nothing this time but sorrowful pity.

I return to the the groaning man and reach outward to offer a small comfort. I'm afraid to move him, but he should know he isn't alone.

"Fuck, Elena. Don't," Damon warns. I ignore him and lift myself over the man to try and see his face.

"Sir?" My dry throat cracks the words as I repeat myself louder each time that I receive no response. I can't hear his breaths, but his chest struggles with each of them, short, quick, and frantic. "Hold on," I lean in closer to tell him.

His response is palpable as he reaches for me and mewls with pain.

"Gal. G-g—Ale." I shush him as he continues to try and communicate his indecipherable message in choked and wet desperation.

With a loud pop, sparks arc from the faulty streetlight, making me jump. The resulting light is brief but brilliant. Instinct arches me over the man's body to shield him from a superficial threat. The dimmer flashes that follow make the shadows dance in a disconcerting pattern, but they illuminate his features enough so that I—

 _No!_

I reel backward, covering the escape of a violent sob with my hand. It wracks my whole torso as I force it inward. I lift my hand away and press the heels of each hard into the top of my thighs. The rusty taste of stale blood mixes with hot salty tears on my lips.

The broken man is Zach Salvatore.

 **XXX**

The sirens have been silenced, but they leave a ringing in my ears. It disharmonizes with the throbbing of my heartbeat to form an uncomfortable melody.

"Miss Gilbert, please." The deputy pulls on my shoulders from behind as I continue to struggle against his entreaties that I leave the scene of Zach's death.

"Why didn't you do anything!?" I gasp with the continued effort of my shouting. "You could have helped him! You didn't do _anything_!"

"Please, Miss. They've done everything they can." The deputy thinks my anger is directed at the paramedics. I ignore him as I stare at Damon, my true target. He stands over them, as dark and sober as the angel of death, while they load the gurney with the draped body into the back of the ambulance.

That's all he's brought me: chaos and death.

He steps toward me, but when his eyes meet mine, he stops. His face twists with pain at the sight of me. His lips part, and his jaw slackens, crippled by his inefficacy.

New, unshed tears in my eyes blur the contour of his body into the darkness around him. When I blink them away, he's disappeared.

The deputy releases me and is quiet in response to the surrender and fatigue that floods my body. My fight is gone.

"Elena!" A voice in the crowd parts the gathering of onlookers.

Stefan cuts through them to see me, dropping his jersey-covered shoulder pads at the barrier. A look from the deputy beside me to the one guarding the police line grants him entrance. I can't hold myself up any longer, and I sink into his chest as he reaches me.

His arms circle around me after a moment. "Are you okay?" he says into my hair. I muffle a short sob against his shoulder and pull away. He bends his head to observe me with worry, and I nod my response.

The Sheriff is approaching us with Bonnie in tow. I step away, and he frowns at me in confusion with his arm extended towards me. I look down.

Bonnie wraps her blanket around both of us, and I walk away with her, leaving Stefan and the Sheriff behind as the shame of cowardice swallows me.

I should be the one to tell him.

But I can't.

There's a duty waiting for me at home that I can't shirk, still suspended in the temporary bliss of his ignorance. I have to save all the strength I have left.

 **XXX**

Jenna lets out a short gasp as she opens the door to the sight of us—well me. I'm not sure she even notices the deputy standing behind me yet. Who would? Dressed in my cheerleader uniform and covered in gore of mysterious origin, I look like an unfortunate extra in a teen horror film.

"God, Elena! What—?"

"I'm okay, Jenna," I say to head off her panic. "Where's Jeremy?"

Her mouth hangs open in preparation for all the things running through her mind. "Upstairs," she answers instead.

I grimace and step past her. Deputy Byrd will have to explain.

 **XXX**

"What? No. What do you mean?" Jeremy asks, incredulous.

"He's gone, Jer. Zach's dead." My brother's face contorts with pain. I wrap my arms tighter around myself to still my shaking body.

Jeremy turns away from me to lean over his desk. His head slumps in defeat, and I cover my mouth before I can start sobbing.

I have to keep it together.

"No," Jeremy whispers and then bursts, "No. NO. NO!" punctuating each with a forceful bang of the fist against the unsuspecting surface of the desk. The last blow sends the desk lamp to the floor, casting the room in shadowy blue semi-darkness, lit only by the stream of moonlight through the window.

I jump with a startled yelp and wince. My chest spasms with my own renewed heartbreak.

Jeremy's shoulders are shaking. With a deep rattling swallow of air, I'm propelled forward by a desperate need to reach him. I wrap myself around his wide back, curling my arms up underneath his so that my palms lie flat against his chest. He's long outgrown me in any measure of stature, but I still feel like I should be able to pick him up and protect him from the world.

"Why does this keep happening to us?" His chest shudders under my fingers.

"I don't know." I exhale, closing my eyes and press my cheek in between his shoulder blades. "I'm so sorry, Jer," I breathe exhausted into the night.

 **XXX**

I take the dying man's hand in between both of mine and hold it against my chest. I can't call him that anymore. I know him. I know his name. I know the hole he will leave in the lives of people I care about and in the life of a girl I barely know. If she's still out there, she will return to a reality I understand too well.

"Mr. Salvatore—Zach," I correct myself. "It's Elena, Elena Gilbert."

He looks up at me, but his eyes don't focus. I can't judge the color of his face, his eyes. Him and the world around us have all gone black and white—mostly black. Flashes of light catch the contours of his features, teasing me. They return and disappear again before I can ever adjust, leaving me unable to trust what they reveal.

He tries to speak again. I lean my ear over his lips, holding my breath against the pungent metallic and earthy smells I don't want to try and identify.

"I'm sorry, Gail. I lost—" He struggles to clear his throat. "I lost her. I lost our little girl."

"Shh. Shhhh—" I try to calm him, but my chattering teeth make it sound more like a shiver than a soothing gesture.

"He took her." The words are barely loud enough for my to hear. His grip starts to slacken in mine. "S'not safe—bert girl. —S'in danger—s'my fault—" He groans from the exertion as his speech fades into complete unintelligibility.

I press my other hand to his shoulder to try and still him. "It's okay, it's okay," I lie. "Rest."

"Wait." Damon's impatient voice shatters everything around me. "What's he saying?" he demands.

I look up at him, scowling in chastisement. Where are his priorities?

He's across from me, on the other side of Zach's body. His eyes glow blue in the colorless night, sharp and piercing.

"He doesn't know who I am. He's talking about Sarah." I shake my head. Why does it matter to him?

"No, he said something about you, Elena—" I stop him with a look. He can worry about this later.

"What can I do?" I plead for the same direction he gave me with Chad—unwavering assurance. I'm lost, unanchored.

His features soften as he looks down at Zach's hand clasped in my white knuckles. "You're doing it."

Useless!

"No," I assert. "There must be something—" The tenderness in his expression is strange and raw. I have to look away.

The arrival of stark blue and red light illuminates the scene like a horrific nightclub, making everything around me look like it's vibrating at a different frequency than I am. It's nauseating.

I refocus my vision on Damon just as an arm bursts through his chest. I scream as it buries its grip in the front of my uniform and lifts me away with ease. My feet dangle useless above the ground. I reopen my eyes, clenched shut from the scream, on my captor.

His features are vague, unremarkable but wrong. It makes me dizzy. All of him is backwards—bright white pupils and irises surrounded by dark sclera—inverted like photo negatives. Behind him, everything spins, and I wrench my eyes shut again. I can feel him draw the hair off my neck. I whimper, helpless against his unrelenting hold on me. He pulls me into an awkward embrace.

I wait for the pain.

"Elena," he whispers at my ear. I open my eyes as he pulls his face from the crook of my neck. His chin and lips are coated in a thick liquid, white and luminous. Something like a gasp and a screech accompanies my hand as I pull it away from my throat covered in the same slippery carnage—my blood. His lips, still slick with it, graze my cheek on their return to my ear, and I wince. "Hey." This time it sounds like its underwater. "Elena. Elena, wake up."

My lungs fill with a greedy breath. My eyes flash open.

Darkness.

 **XXX**

"Bad dream?" the darkness asks in a gentle whisper. I blink at the blackness until I can start to see the difference between the night and the back of my eyelids. My body feels so heavy, sunk into my mattress, that I don't try to move, just turn my head in the direction of Damon's voice. His profile is a shadowy contour staring up at the dim, illusory ceiling of my room. I extend my arm further under my pillow and tug the corner under itself so my cheek rests just at the edge, and I can see him better. His arms are folded underneath his head while he lies outstretched next to me on my bed. The soft linen of my sheets and pillowcase are still damp in places from where I slept with wet hair.

"I wish it were just a dream," I whisper back. He doesn't look at me, but my vision has adjusted enough so I can make out the creases around his eyes and the flutter of eyelashes. I sigh. "They seem to have more in common with reality these days."

"Yeah, that was rhetorical. You should take up bourbon. It'll help you sleep better."

I groan. "Uggh. It makes my stomach hurt." I grimace in disgust.

"Yeah, if you drink it with syrup and sugar like a girl." He scoffs. "A glass neat before bed, and you'd be _out_." His lips pucker in a circle as he drags out the word for emphasis. I roll my eyes.

"Has anyone told you, you give terrible advice?"

He rolls his head towards me with a uneven eyebrow and an undeveloped smirk.

"Right," I answer myself. After a quiet pause becomes a painful one, I find my voice to whisper "I'm sorry." into the silence growing between us. Before he can deny my apology, I continue, "The things I said . . . Shouted at you. You didn't des—"

"You apologize too much."

"More unsolicited advice." My chest shudders with a gentle chuckle, and I let my eyelids drift closed. When I open them again, they're heavier than before.

Damon scrutinizes me with narrowed eyes, unashamed. My nerves come alive, alert and hypersensitive even as my mind and the rest of my body aches with fatigue. My hand, that lies palm down on the mattress between us, curls into the sheet. His eyes flick to it, and he rolls onto his side, facing me without disturbing any of the bedding. His arm, bent at the elbow, props his head up.

A wave of emotion I'm not prepared for washes over me. It triggers the prick of tears in the corner of my eyes and something thick in my throat I can't swallow away.

"Jeremy's right," I tell him in a voice that trembles, naked in the silent dark. "These things keep happening, and it isn't right or fair." I raise my volume until the words no longer crack. "It doesn't even make sense. I mean, why was Zach out there? Or Chad? And he stole my car?" My throat catches, and I run out of breath.

Damon's unreadable observance of me remains unaffected, except for the way his jaw quivers with the tension of clenching it. "Those are questions for tomorrow," he chastises. " _After_ you go back to sleep."

I bury my face further in my pillow and stymie the onslaught of tears and sobs that will only exhaust me further. When I turn my cheek back out so I can see again, he extends his free hand towards the exposed back of mine. As if he were handling an explosive, he settles his over mine. An electric jolt pulses up my forearm to my shoulder, and my chest tightens.

After a few seconds' evidence that I haven't pulled away, his thumb starts to trace circles on my skin. A deep hum starts in his chest and fills the room around us with a delicate and heartbreaking melody I don't recognize. It shocks me, but I don't move, don't look away from our overlapped hands.

As long as I keep watching, the illusion remains unshattered, and I can imagine he's touching me. I don't know how long I fight it, but the lilt of dulcet notes weighs heavy on my mind and body. The inevitable pull tugs me under the calm mirrored surface of oblivion.

 **Intense? Shocking? Please, please let me know what you think. Did Zach get enough character development that his death impacted you? Thoughts and predictions? How did the accident happen? Why was Zach there? What's up with Bonnie? I want to hear it all!**

 **Also, another musical mashup for this one. Normally, I spend tons of time trying to find the right lyrics and songs for the titles and also the tone of the chapter, and it can be hard to find the right one. This time, I had tons to choose from, but I quickly realized most of them only applied to the scene at the end there, lol. I ended up with another compromise. Since I referenced Damon humming Taylor Swift early in the story, I've wanted to use a Taylor song. Though it's too recent to be the song he hums to Elena in this chapter, it suited the lullaby type message I was going for, and then there's the sort of haunting foreboding of the Snow Patrol song to represent that dread that's getting to Elena.**

 **This ends the arc that I have written, so the next update may be more unreliable with timing, but I hope you got an enjoyable dose from this.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	21. Under the Surface

**Happy Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas (Hanukkah, Kwanza, Yule, etc.) and New Year!**

 **Soooooo, it's been a while and I've got some houskeeping to take care of before we dig in (Or, you know, if you're just reading through a while after this has been posted, you can probably just skip like most or all of it).**

 **First, I just want to make clear, that despite the very large hiatus this story has taken in updating, I have been working on it, and am very very sorry I made you wait so long in suspense.**

 **Just as important, I need to give some special thank yous. A big one to NorahB who's wonderful beta reading on this chapter helped me get back on the horse when it finally came to editing this chapter to be posted. If you have not checked out her post series fic, A New Normal, you should. Also, thank you to all you wonderful readers, reviewers, and lurkers. Your reviews reminded me how badly I needed to kick my butt into gear, there were a couple of you who even checked up on me to make sure I was okay, and I checked my stats a few times, so I'm also apologetically aware that many of you were frequently checking the last chapter for updates. Thank you and I love you all. Here is my not-an-excuse-but-a-rendering-of-events-that-led-to-this-painful-hiatus:**

 **To be honest, after the last update I did get a bit stuck. And that was all on me. By the time October rolled around, I did get back to writing in an effort to prep myself for NaNoWriMo. The end of October is when this chapter should have realistically been posted, but then things snowballed. General (not disastrous or anything) life events intervened with me being able to edit what I had written, and therefore decide how to break up chapters, polish it and post it in the much better than the original format you will be able to get shortly.**

 **And then, if any of you know about NaNoWriMo (a month long endeavor to challenge yourself to write 50k words of a novel without editing), than you will understand what I mean when I say NOVEMBER happened. I focused all my attention in November on writing this story, and was unable to update. Good news: I managed to write about 35k more words than what you're getting tonight, and so I now have that banked and should be updating more frequently. Less than good news: I burnt myself and all my lovely family and friends out on writing, and so the week of a break in December I had planned to take from writing and editing turned into a month long blizzard of catching up with all the lovely family and friends concerned after they hadn't seen me for a month and the subsequent holiday get togethers and events.**

 **TL;DR version: It's a new year, and I'm getting my shit together. Please forgive me; thank you, and enjoy this update!**

 **Previously on . . . : For those of you who don't feel like doing a whole reread to remember where we left off. The first football game of the season did not go that great for Elena. She got temp. booted from the squad during halftime. Bonnie joined her in solidarity. They changed out in the locker room where Elena discovered her locker had been opened. Walking back to the car, Elena realizes her keys are missing and they witness an accident using Elena's SUV that injures, the driver and their stoner classmate, and kills Zach Salvatore. Damon's been looking for Enzo, but is interrupted to help Elena through saving Chad's life and finding out Zach has died. After the police and paramedics arrive, Elena goes home and must inform Jeremy of what has happened, She's upset, has some creepy ass nightmares, and in the dark quiet of her bedroom we left off with Damon attempting to soothe her fears with a lullaby and help her get back to sleep. For frame of reference: The pep rally and football game were the first Saturday after school started, and this chapter takes place the following Monday.**

 _It feels like there's oceans_

 _Between me and you once again_

 _We hide our emotions_

 _ **Under the surface** and tryin' to pretend_

 _But it feels like there's oceans_

 _Between you and me_

— _Seafret_

 _September 14, 2009_

 _Dear Diary,_

 _My house is a tomb._

 _Words only spoken in necessity, eyes cast downward, the feigned stiffness with which everyone carries out menial tasks._

 _A sighting of Jeremy is rare. He's on the other side of a door, but I leave it in place—a bandage I haven't gathered the courage to pull away from the fresh wound it shields._

 _Jenna is afraid to leave us alone, and has stopped attending classes. But her struggle to feel helpful has devolved from awkwardly veiled attempts at making herself available to talk, to constant offerings of hot beverages. Now, she does homework in her room, where the pervasive sound of typing won't penetrate the stillness that has settled over the house._

 _Even Damon, our resident restless spirit, respects the quiet Zach's death has made a necessity for us. He's been around since Saturday, but never comes closer than an arbitrary, self-imposed distance. I don't have the courage to say anything, terrified that the house will echo my doubts, fears, and secret feelings like a cavern, no matter how I lower my voice._

 _My skin itches with unanswered questions and uncertainties._

 _Chad Carpenter got high in the athletic parking lot, stole my car keys, and decided to go for a joyride in my SUV which resulted in the accident that killed Zach Salvatore._

 _That's the explanation the Sheriff brought during the follow-up house call she paid us this morning._

 _How can it be a freak accident?_

 _Does the Sheriff believe that?_

 _Does Stefan?_

 _Can my brother recover from another tragedy?_

 _Can I trust my memory with the tenderness of Damon's lullaby and near-touches? Or have I painted over reality with the color of my own hopes?_

 _I can no longer rely on anyone but myself to deliver the answers I once thought entitled to me._

 _I can't abide the silence of this house anymore._

 **XXX**

I terminate the sentence with a forceful jab of my pen. The punctuation mark stabs through to the next page of the journal. It collapses into the crossed legs of my lap. Damon glances over from where he sits in my window seat, but doesn't say anything. Over the past two days, I've grown accustomed to his near constant presence—at a distance.

Yesterday morning, after I woke to the daylight of the new day, my heart dropped at the sight of my empty room. I returned with a cup of coffee from the kitchen to find him casually ensconced in the light pouring from my window. He disappeared again before twilight and then reappeared with my first sip of caffeine this morning as if it revived him the same way it did me.

Frustration crawls up the flesh of my arms. I groan, toss my journal away, and jump to the floor, propelled by a new urgency to do _something_. Damon sits up and looks at me with a question in his eyes. I shove my sneakers on, ignoring the reflexive memory of the blood-caked cheerleading pair I had to dump in the trash. I look around for my phone before remembering it didn't survive the carnage of my car.

"Elena?" Damon breaks the silence as I pull the door open. I pause in the threshold. The hall is empty and the house still grave. I rake my teeth over my bottom lip before turning back to invite him along without a word.

 **XXX**

I creep down the stairs at a painful pace, so I don't alert anyone to my departure. I don't have to see Damon to know he's behind me. I can feel him glaring, impatient at each prolonged step. I grab a knit shrug and lift the keys to Jenna's Mini from the hook by the door.

I pull the front door open, but step back startled.

Wide, sparkling blue eyes and coiffed golden curls obstruct my path. She drops her hand back to her side from where it was poised to knock.

"Caroline?" My voice jumps. I hurry to close the door behind me and push past her onto the porch to tug the sweater on over my dark red camisole. Damon's silhouette already occupies the porch swing.

We turn toward each other. Caroline folds her arms over her chest, pulling her denim jacket taut across her shoulders and obscuring the neckline of her white, eyelet lace tank. "It's good to see you're feeling better." I smile, though I can't help but glance at the soft chiffon scarf tied above the collar of her jacket. You'd have to look very hard to imagine anything south of normal had happened to her. I frown. But it did. "Wait, what are you doing here, Care? Shouldn't you be home, taking it easy?"

"No." She huffs, dropping her arms and stamping one of her flats against the wood. " _We_ should be at practice." My lips part in protest, because Jesus, she got out of the hospital yesterday, but— "And don't worry. I pulled one of the girls up from JV to stand in for me in routines. Which need serious work, by the way. And what am I supposed to do about that with half a squad? I had to send the girls home, and then I came to see what was up with you two." Her eyebrow arches as she provides a silence I'm meant to fill with a satisfactory explanation for my lack of dedication. My lips press back together.

"I'm sorry. Jeremy got really close to the Salvatores over the summer, and Sarah's still missing and now Zach . . . I needed to be here for him." The blank confusion in Caroline's expression stops me. "Hold on. Who else did you mean?"

She scrunches up her nose and then relaxes it. "Bonnie, of course. She wasn't at school either. I just came from her Grams' house, but Miss Sheila said she was taking a nap." There's a slight tilt of her head. Her eyes narrow as if napping were a concept entirely foreign to her.

"Bonnie wasn't at school today?" My eyes drop to the ground. I should've checked on her, but I've been so disconnected since losing my phone.

"Didn't I say that?"

"The accident was pretty horrible. She probably just needed some time," I tell Caroline, and myself. I tuck a piece of hair that's fallen in my face back behind my ear again and continue twisting the ends of it in my fingers. I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince more. I haven't forgotten the strange trance that gripped Bonnie before she disappeared in the direction of the collision yet to happen.

Caroline tips her head to give me a pointed look, and I realize I've been quiet too long. My verbal skills are rusty from the disuse of this grim weekend. I offer her a weak smile while I rub my thumb over one of the keys I'm gripping.

"But, hey—" Something dawns on her. "Where were you headed?"

Damon moves from the swing to lean against one of the columns at the top of the porch steps. He seems curious himself. My eyes flick back to Caroline, before he can take advantage of my attention.

"Uh . . ." My mouth hangs open, as I hesitate to reveal too much. "I was going to Stefan's actually," I say, because I've never been a good liar.

Caroline's eyebrows lift into her hairline. She's delighted at the prospect of gossip. But it's Damon's response I'm imagining. I can't bring myself to look and find out. Heat flushes my cheeks. Of course, I would've been better off chumming the waters of a shark tank.

"Salvatore?" She hides the rising hook of her voice in an unassuming lure of casual interest. I know better than to take the bait.

"No, Caroline." I extend the words, shaking my head. "We're friends. Nothing more. I haven't seen him since everything was going on, and my phone got smashed in the crash." I catch the edge of Damon's smirk, looking away as quick as I can manage—

Except that the mocking grin that begins as a furrow in Damon's cheek matures into an elegant and devilish curl in Caroline's—a bizarre resemblance between two people I had never thought to consider similar.

The wrinkle of her nose and the petulance in her voice shatters the illusion. "Ungh. I missed everything. Stupid mountain lion." I can't pause to admire the height of ridiculous her rearranged priorities reach with this statement. Instead, I focus on her imagination spiraling outward from the possibility of me and Stefan.

I shake my head and put my hand on her shoulder to reel her back in. I suspect she's already planning the color scheme of our wedding.

"Really, Caroline." I hold my open palm up between us. "He needed a friend, and right now that's all I have room for." I wince, still acutely aware that Damon is listening. I don't mean to evoke our conversation from the locker room, only to stop Caroline's rumor mill before it can start turning. Does he notice? I wish I could edit speech after it's left my mouth.

Caroline scoffs. "C'mon, Elena. You and Matt broke up ages ago—decades in high school years. It's a new year; you're ready for a new guy." I press an arm over my chest to grip the other right above the elbow and look at my hand still fidgeting with Jenna's keys. It's something Caroline would say, but there's a soft quality to her voice that lends the words a sincerity she's not exactly known for.

"Maybe," I start out loud before I mean to say anything. I drop the arm back to my side. "But I'm _not_ interested in Stefan Salvatore," I say, raising my voice louder than necessary. I'm sure he can hear fine, but I want him to know my words are more than for Caroline's sake.

I'm focusing so hard on not looking in Damon's direction, that I don't register Caroline's expression. As I start to read the insecurity she's usually so desperate to mask, her eyes have already brightened. Her glossy lips are quick to follow with their satisfied smile.

"Good." She bounces with the rising pitch of the word. "Did you know he came to visit me while I was in the hospital? I mean, I guess he wanted to see if I remembered anything about his cousin—which of course, I don't remember anything—but then he also said he was worried about me too. I didn't want to say anything before, because—Well, Bonnie made it sound like you two might . . . you know . . . But if you're just friends—" She takes a breath, miles beyond whatever centerpiece or bridal shower fantasies I may have starred in. She must already be to retirement parties and nursing homes, wrinkled hands clasped together in a simultaneous sleep-death a la _The Notebook_. "You're gonna go see him now? Can I come with?"

A croaking noise fills the absence left by words I can't find. My gut is still snagged and twisted on her comment about not remembering. I block her path as she makes her way to the porch steps with her foregone conclusions. "What? No!" The force of the meager syllables compensates for the lack of more. Force enough that Caroline startles quiet for a moment, and her eyes widen.

My window closes too fast for me to discover the magical phrases to convince her against pursuing Stefan without including 'vampire' or 'almost mauled you to death in the woods before I left him alone to mess around with your head so you wouldn't remember'. "His uncle just died, Care," is the genius I land on instead.

I don't think it worked. A new possibility blooms in Caroline's mind, and the gears spin as she prepares to will it into existence.

"No, you're right—"

Wait—What?

"You think we should take a fruit basket? Or a lasagna? Salvatore—That's Italian, right? We should run by Bell's first. I have this really cool trick for transferring the ones from the freezer section to a fancy dish, and then I'll have the perfect excuse to stop by again and pick up the dish." Her smile is brilliant, restored to its usual confidence by the bright gleam of her teeth.

I finally look over at Damon, because—I'm not sure what part of me thinks it's a good idea. His lips are pursed and his brow furrowed. He turns from Caroline to me and raises an eyebrow when he catches me looking. 'Is she serious?' he mouthes as if he were in danger of being overheard.

I cover my inappropriate bout of laughter in a fake fit of coughs that make it sound like I'm choking.

Caroline's grimace tells me it's more than a curtsy short of ladylike.

"Sorry, Care" I clear my throat with a nervous hum. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"The lasagna?" she asks, contemplating other casserole alternatives. I don't have the time to gather some tact before I lose her already waning focus.

"Or Stefan," I respond.

"What?" Her pitch wavers. "But you said—"

"He's just not in a good place right now. Give it time." I swallow hard. I don't want to encourage her at all, but I have to say something. Maybe if I can distract her for a month, she'll move on.

"Because you've gotten to know each other so well? In what, a week?" She scoffs.

God. Has it only been a week? I glance over at Damon as I roll the hot metal of the keyring in my sweaty closed palm. If Caroline only knew. My short acquaintance with Stefan is a drop in his century and half deep bucket. Even Damon, with whom I've unknowingly spent more than half my life, his decade overlapping mine has only been the posthumous insult to a lifelong torturous injury my father and others like him inflicted. Who would I be kidding, trying to lay a claim to either of them?

And, yet, it doesn't change anything.

I have to help.

I blink and look up at Caroline, clenching my fist tight around the keys. "Sorry, I've got to get going," I tell her, stepping down the porch steps. "The funeral's tomorrow, but I'll be back at school Wednesday."

"Wait. Seriously!?" she screeches indignant from the threshold of my house. As I open the Coop's driver door, Caroline's mouth is agape and her arms suspended palm-up in the air in front of her. I offer her a small wave and a grimacing smile before sinking down into the driver's seat.

Cheer practice on Wednesday is not going to be fun.

Damon is already waiting for me when I pull the door shut and put the key in the ignition. He's curled into the small car with his elbow propped up on the door and his hand and forearm hanging out the window as if it were already rolled down. I'd say he wouldn't be caught dead in the passenger seat of a Mini Coop, but here he is in all his spectral glory.

I smile a little to myself at my own joke, roll the power windows down for both of us, and pull out onto the street.

 **XXX**

Gravel crunches under the tires as I slow to a stop on the shoulder right before the Salvatores' private driveway. I wrap my hands around the steering wheel at nine and three, squeeze until my knuckles turn white, and drop them to my lap as I let out a sigh.

"So, you're just not going to say anything then?"

Damon turns away from the window. His lips part with a breath, then press together in a thin smirk as his eyes narrow.

"Was there something you were expecting?" His voice fills the small space.

"No more 'Trying to find Enzo is dangerous' or 'Walking around in broad daylight is stupid', 'You take too many unnecessary risks, Elena'?" I lift my eyebrow with the question and start to feel foolish as the silence absorbs my voice.

"Because that's been so effective for me in the past?" His harsh chuckle has me looking down at my hands. "Look. What's this really about?" I came for answers.

But Damon's right; I'm hesitating.

My stomach hardens, and pain lances my chest. I try a slow breath to relieve it. My lips tremble, and I cut the breath off to press them tightly together again.

I'm afraid.

"What you said about grief—" I start after a moment, "How it's intensified for vampires? Is that—? The switch—" A tightness in my throat strangles my voice. My heart clenches at the memory of waking up in the hospital to discover my parents were gone—forever. It's impossible to imagine it hurting more than it did. And to have a button to make it all go away? That's all I wanted for weeks. How could anyone resist?

Damon's shoulders stiffen, and he watches me with incredulous eyes. His mouth drops open, but he doesn't manage an answer. His eyes flare in a quick recovery. He relaxes back into the seat and stares ahead instead of at me. A lopsided sneer dissolves the genuine response into disinterest.

"Stefan?" His acknowledgment is flippant. "Trust me. They weren't that close."

I pull in a short breath, shaking my head. "They were family." I mean to give it strength, but all that comes out is a breathy whisper.

"Stefan's grief is for himself. As long as he gets to play hero and martyr he won't turn it off." My lip curls from revulsion I'm too stunned to mask. Damon closes and opens his eyes as he rolls them.

But when he starts again his annoyance softens. "Your Rescue Sarah Mission is the best thing for him."

I'm not sure I believe it. "And what happens if we can't save Sarah, if he feels he has nothing left?"

He shrugs. "My confidence in my brother's self righteous messiah complex is pretty strong." Damon fixes his eyes hard on mine and the contact doesn't waver. "But it wouldn't matter if it weren't." He sighs a long and heavy breath. "If I told you to turn around right now because Stefan might lose his shit, turn into an emotionless, bloodcrazed predator willing to slaughter this whole town for fun, that I've been looking for Enzo and haven't made any progress—" When did he—But I guess he's been putting my sleeping hours to use. Why doesn't he ever tell me anything? "—Would you listen?"

Despite seeming to know the answer, his eyes widen with the question. I stare at him flat and narrow my eyes at his assumption but can't bring myself to argue.

Damon nods. My silence is enough to confirm it for him. And yet, he seems disappointed by my lack of denial.

"Didn't think so." His mask of disinterest returns. "It wouldn't be the worst idea in the world if you started packing some heat—the sharp and wooden variety. Not that you'd know how to use it." I ignore his slight in favor of an unamused scowl. I drop my eyes to my lap before he can see it transform into vulnerable agreement.

Without looking at him I ask, "Can you come back from . . . Can you flip it back?"

His voice is even when he replies, "I wouldn't worry about it, Elena." He pauses. Muffled and quiet, so that I have to strain to hear, he continues, "We both know Zach and Sarah aren't Stefan's only ties to his humanity."

My head shoots back to him, but he's looking away from me, out the window.

Does he mean—? Is he willing to let me share his existence with his brother?

"Damon—?" I start, but he finishes his thought before I can wrangle my own into a tangible question.

"He has you now."

I'm struck silent by his genuine tone. It's something he's glad of. My chest clenches in rejection and wrings my heart into pulp.

 **Alright, so what did ya think? Take a few minutes to leave a review to let me know, or just to let me know you're still reading. I've missed you guys :) While I won't make any timeframe promises, I will say that more updates (yes, plural) will be coming soon. Thanks so much!**


	22. I Keep My Visions to Myself

**Super big thanks to NorahB for helping me beta this one! It needed it. And she just updated The New Normal, so if you're not on that wagon already, jump on. And a giant thanks to everyone who reassured me they'd stick it out with me after my return from that very long hiatus. It means a lot :)**

 **Disclaimer, the song lyric title thing is super long, but I won't apologize. It's another mashup of two great songs. Dream by Imagine Dragons (which you should recognize if you watched the 15 second promo for the series finale over and over again like I did, lol) and Dreams by Fleetwood Mac (though I love the original version, the one going on the playlist is this awesome duet cover from Bastille and Gabrielle Aplin) Give them both a listen while you read. All three perspectives from the characters in this chapter are represented in the lyrics I frankensteined together, thus the length.**

 **Anyways, Enjoy!**

 _Now there you go again, you say you want your freedom_

 _Well, who am I to keep you down?_

 _Now here I go again, I see the crystal vision_

 _ **I keep my visions to myself**_

 _In the eyes of the teenage crystallized_

 _Oh, the prettiest of lights that hang the hallways of the home_

 _And the cries from the strangers out at night_

 _Like a heartbeat drives you mad_

 _In the stillness of remembering_

 _Of what you had and what you lost_

 _But now I am leaving_

 _All of us were only dreaming_

 _Everything is actually a mess_

— _Gabrielle Aplin, Bastille (Originally: Fleetwood Mac)_

— _Imagine Dragons_

My heart pounds hard when I realize that the heavy wooden door is ajar. I turn to raise my eyebrows at Damon, but he's disappeared. The urge to stamp my foot against the ground, slinging curses at him is difficult to resist.

I clench the muscles in my calves and hold my breath as I peer through the gap into the entryway.

"It's fine," a voice calls from within, making me jump. I suck in a breath, and my fingers curl into the front of my shirt against my breast. "Unless you're scared of a little dust."

Right. Damon.

I stifle a groan and push my shoulder into the door. I have to leave it open behind me to help illuminate the foyer and some of the house beyond. The ornate fireplaces and antique fixtures, that made this place glow orange and red with warmth, are now cold and dark.

My feet falter. My eyes adjust, and I can see the slivers of sunlight that beam around heavy curtains drawn in front of the parlor's enormous picture windows. The light reflects off of a sea of dust motes in the air. A sketch of the furniture in the smoky darkness starts to materialize. I know I can see well enough to reach the curtains or find a light switch, but to get there I have to cross a river of pitch stretching out in both directions.

No matter what all clear Damon gave, it still feels like I'm tempting horror movie cliche fate. Where is he?

I stare down the hall to my right, straining my eyes in futile effort to make out anything in the blackness. I know a second before I turn to look in the opposite direction that Damon is waiting there to startle me. I grit my teeth against the lurch in my stomach it causes anyway.

"Boo." He delivers his greeting in a bald voice. I can see him standing a few feet deep in the hall, because a cone of light cast from his chin twists his features into a mask of sharp highlights and long sunken shadows in typical ghost-story-telling fashion.

Is that a flashlight? Not a real one, or he wouldn't be able to hold it. I sigh at his antics. Whatever it is, I'm relieved to have the light.

"Very funny," I whisper. I never thought of myself as the sarcastic type, but it's becoming unavoidable in Damon's presence. "Can you point that thing somewhere useful, please?" I attempt a chastising tone.

Still cast in the warping light, Damon shakes his head.

"Won't be much use." He lowers the instrument, pointing it down the length of the right extension of the hallway. I lean in to peer after it, but the darkness swallows any light as if it were a black hole. "Ghost lights—really only good for luring gullible travelers off of cliffs."

Of course the illusion of a tool wouldn't actually be of any real help.

Damon turns the light back on himself where he stands around the corner of the entranceway and the left hand passage. "Here's the switch," he indicates with the tilt of his head. I grasp at the wall beside his disembodied face and torso until my fingers trace over a plastic knob. The lights come on at their dimmest setting and brighten as I twist the grooved edge around to what must be near the halfway point.

The glowing orange light isn't harsh, but my eyes squint against the sudden change. As they adjust, I focus them on Damon. The flashlight has disappeared, like the darts at the Grille the second after they hit their mark.

I frown. I remember him describing how it all worked. 'Mind over matter,' he'd said—a leftover instinct from being alive. Sitting in a chair or twisting his ring around his finger, even the darts make sense under those parameters, but wielding an imaginary flashlight?

"This way." He gestures with an impatient wave of the hand for me to follow him down the hallway towards one of the staircases and the entrance to the kitchen.

I jog a few steps to catch up and whisper, "Why'd you learn that thing with the flashlight if I'm the only one who's ever been able to see you?"

I can only see his back as he answers, "Early on, I tried visiting Katherine a few times." I'm glad he can't see the jealous twist of my features at the mention of her, but I wish I could see his face. His casual tone is too even to judge anything. "Not lots of great lighting in underground tombs—I was trying to find a loophole to see her." He leads us into the kitchen.

"Did it work?" My voice sounds small, but I managed it without giving away anything. I'm rather proud of myself until—

"Obviously not," is Damon's derisive answer. And I decide against voicing any future comment my foolish brain might approve. Damon's shoulders lift in a dismissive shrug. "By then, she would've been completely dessicated. She wouldn't want anyone to see her all wrinkly and mummified anyway."

Sounds like a great gal.

God, even my thoughts have turned sarcastic and bitter.

I bite my tongue. If you can't say anything nice, if you can't say anything nice, if you can't—

The windows in the kitchen don't have curtains. The light that streams through gives the dark furniture and accents within a dull, gray glow. A pathetic looking fire is struggling to stay alive in the grate. Several logs worth of ashes have accumulated around it and spill out onto the hearth. I can see the flagstones glittering with the reflection of the flames in shards of crystal. Damon pauses a moment to observe the scene with a twist of disgust before looking back over his shoulder to check I'm still in tow.

"What are we doing?" I hiss. Damon starts again with the expectation that I'll continue to follow. "Why was the door open like that? Is Stefan even here? Hey?" I ask in rapid succession and clench my jaw when he doesn't answer fast enough to satisfy me. Damon steps down and stops with one foot lowered past the threshold of an off-the-kitchen passageway.

"Anyone Stefan's worried about either has an invitation or they don't. Doors and locks aren't much of an obstacle." I'm not sure if he's trying to scare me or reassure me—most of what he says seems like it could lean in either direction. "Stefan's down here." Impatient, he gestures into the small room he blocks the opening of.

"You got your righteous call to arms pep talk all polished and ready? You're gonna need it." Before I can respond, he turns from me and steps further into the little room. I stop at the threshold to peer inside.

Wait. Down? Down where?

The flick of a switch on the kitchen side of the wall illuminates a large pantry. The generous number of shelves built into the walls are almost bare, a few boxes of pasta and cereal scattered amongst them. Within the small walk-in extension of the kitchen is another door, also left ajar. As Damon steps down into it, I realize where he's leading me.

"Wait, wait. No." I jump after him with my hand extended, but all I grasp is air. "Dammit," I say under my breath and stamp my foot.

I pull the door all the way open. Cool, damp air hits my face, as I teter over the pinnacle of a steep stone staircase lit only by the light in the pantry. I fumble around until I find the light switch, but my stomach twists as I continue to toggle it up and down to no effect.

The first time I visited the Salvatore's basement/cellar/dungeon was when Zach Salvatore was showing me his crop of vervain. When I realized Zach's little greenhouse with the heavy iron door and dirt flooring locked from the outside, I decided it would be the final time. I don't want to think about what it was meant for or who it was meant to keep in. It reminds me too much of a sterile laboratory with vervain showers.

We used a different entrance, a door disguised as a panel of the hallway, but I'm sure this sinister stairwell is another access to the same place. At least those steps had a handrail. But Zach stood in the way as he triggered whatever mechanism released the door. Even if I could remember which panel, I have no way of knowing how to do it myself.

That would be if I had any desire to descend the Salvatore house's creepy sub-level ever again. Which I don't. Nope. I shake my head. Not a bit.

"There's another light at the bottom," Damon calls from below.

Great.

I begin as confident as I can manage with the sensation of my stomach doing flips joining my descent. It becomes harder to see with each step. At the last bit of staircase I can make out, I lift my head and try to trust the logic that each new step will be in the same place as the one before it. The passage is narrow enough that I can extend my arms and brace my forearms against the brick on both sides. Ahead, I can see Damon illuminating his waving hand with the spectral flashlight.

"This is completely unsafe," I grumble. "No one's updated these stairs sinc—"

Ooof.

The breath leaves my chest as my sneaker meets an unfamiliar surface and my foot slips out from underneath me. I fall backward and hiss as the corners of the stairs dig into my arms and the middle of my back.

"Elena?" Damon's voice is close, and I can hear both his concern and annoyance.

"I'm fine." I pull myself back up once I find both walls again and carefully descend the remaining three steps.

An uncovered switch connected to exposed wiring ignites a series of light bulbs hanging from the ceiling when I flip it. They buzz and glow dull and yellow, but there are enough individual lights that the cavernous room extending ahead of me is lit.

Rows of wooden shelves extend in both directions at least five or six deep arranged like a library with dusty, metal plaques to indicate years, regions, and varieties of alcohol—the wine cellar. My lips part with a breath. I hadn't expected these to be the kinds of spirits haunting this place.

Damon chuckles.

"Damn waste. I lifted some fantastic shit and hid it here before Augustine got their hands on me. Nobody even knows it's here. I'd drain this cellar before I worried about a drop of blood if I had the chance." There's more reverence in his voice than I've ever heard him express for any person.

Strange priorities, but I suppose I'd get pretty sentimental about cheeseburgers if I hadn't been able to taste one in decades. I fight back a smile.

As I step forward to get a better look, something crinkles and slips underfoot like whatever sent me tumbling backwards on the stairs. I lift my sole off of the flat sheet of plastic with printed text. "C'mon," Damon urges before I can bend down to read it. "Through here." I kick the discarded plastic out of my path and follow after him.

XXX

"Stefan?" I can make out his silhouette hunched over the open deep freeze. The lights in here are industrial and flicker from lack of maintenance. It's not the most comforting vibe. "What are you doing?"

When he rights himself, he cradles something dark and nebulous against his chest. He drops it into a smaller camping cooler that stands open on the floor beside his feet and then returns to the freezer for more. "What do you want, Elena?" He doesn't feign surprise at my arrival. "You shouldn't be here." I ignore his words and watch the strange packages as he transfers them to the cooler. The fluorescent light glimmers off of the plastic, and I can make out a familiar insignia for Mystic Falls Hospital.

"Are those bags of blood?" I blurt out, though I've already confirmed the answer. The plastic on the stairs—that's what it was. Except the two I came across were empty, drained and collapsed like an empty juice pouch, before being carelessly discarded.

"Of course it's blood." Damon's indignation draws my eyes to where he stands at the opening of the vervain hothouse. "He's a vampire. Moving on—" He makes a cycling motion with his hand. I scowl. Does he have to be so obnoxious all the time? It's distracting.

But Damon's right. Stefan is a vampire, one who avoids feeding on humans. Part of me must have realized the blood came from somewhere. Still, seeing it is disconcerting. My mom used to organize the local blood drive, and I donated on more than one occasion. I never imagined my lifesaving donations as someone's diet shake.

"Wait. No—I mean, what's going on? What are you doing with these?" I step forward, insistent as he shuts the lid on the portable cooler. Why would he need to pack blood? Unless—"Where are you going?"

I hold my breath, and the quiet swells between us. Stefan is still, bent over and gripping each side of the cooler. His extended arms support his squared shoulders, and his head hangs between them. I look to Damon for some sort of guidance, but he only jerks his head in Stefan's direction. I press my lips tightly together and take a step closer.

"Look, you can't leave. We need you here." I extend my hand towards his. "Sarah needs you. I know how hard—"

I gasp, unable to track the inhuman motion of Stefan grabbing my wrist. My eyes widen and freeze. My body is rigid, struck motionless in this awkward extension of intended comfort. I brace myself for the vampire aspect, the red-darkened sclera and writhing veins that have haunted my dreams. When Stefan's eyes lift to meet mine, they're clear and his face is smooth, in complete control.

"Go. Home." His voice is heavy and thick. My eyes narrow against his empty expression. I recover enough agency to yank my hand free and pull myself upright.

"No. Not until you explain how running away helps anyone!" I rub at my wrist and imagine my legs as stalks rooted into the ground so I can't back away.

Damon lifts his eyebrow. He stands closer than before.

Dammit. Stop looking at him.

With no consideration of me as an obstacle, Stefan lifts the cooler and carries it with him as he pushes past me. I stagger backwards in the restricted space to get out of his way.

"This is what's best for you and everyone." His words float behind him as he leaves them. He makes his way through the darkened passageway to the library of wine, unburdened by the weight of the blood-filled cooler and unhindered by the dim lighting. I have to remind my stalks to become legs again before I can turn and stumble after him.

"Well, that went well," Damon says, a step behind me.

XXX

When I catch up to Stefan again, he's standing with the doors pulled open to an old armoire I know was locked during my first trespass here. A mismatched set of bindings stuff the weathered piece of furniture's shelves. Each one is a distinct individual in an organically cultivated mass. Some of the spines are marked with years, some spineless and held together only by thread, all of them hand bound—journals.

Years and years of journals.

Damon scoffs at my side. "Such an insufferable navel gazer, my brother."

I move forward to peek over Stefan's shoulder at the smaller-than-average tome he pulls from the mass. It falls open in his palm. He pulls something thicker than a page and more rigid than paper from its place as a makeshift bookmark and tucks it into the open messenger bag slung across his body. This is the only thing he collects from this room full of sentimental and personal items. My curiosity flares into a distraction, and I roll onto my toes to get a better view inside the bag.

Stefan locks the cabinet and tosses the key into his bag, before turning back toward us. He doesn't acknowledge me as he moves for the door.

"Don't just stand there," Damon urges. Sometimes, I really wish I could roll my eyes out loud.

I step in Stefan's path before he reaches the door. He stops too close. His sudden proximity steals the breath from my throat. My chest shudders with the effort of pulling in more air before I find my voice.

"Nope," I say while staring at his chest. "Sorry, but I'm gonna need a little more explanation." I set my feet in a firmer stance, move my hand to my hip, then slide it flat down the side of my jeans, because I feel like an idiot.

"Coming here—Staying in Mystic Falls was a mistake. How much explanation does it need?" Stefan's collarbone flushes red. My eyes flick up to his.

"Then why did you?" I challenge. "Why did you stay?"

Stefan's empty expression falls away, and his eyes hold mine. His brow furrows with pain, and his lips part. I've struck something deeper than I ever aimed for. "Stefan?"

"I never meant to—" His voice is quiet. "My mother is buried here. I was leaving her grave and Mystic Falls. I would have left without another soul knowing I'd ever been here, would've stayed away for years, but—" The way he looks at me is strange and intense. "I came across an accident. A family drove their car off of the bridge into the river."

Stefan's eyes search my face, waiting—

Oh my god.

I take a step back and pull my arms and hands into my body, pressing them against my tightening chest. I swallow thick as my eyes begin to well. I wrench my eyes shut, and I'm surrounded by eerie quiet—submerged. My father stretches his hand out towards mine, mouthes that he loves me. The desperate sorrow in his features is an unmistakable admission that we're both going to die.

My eyes burst open. I pull in a greedy breath.

"You." My voice shakes. "You pulled me out."

Stefan nods. His eyes are vulnerable, like he wants to hide. "When I came here, I was so many miles from being a person that I want to be—someone good. Helping you was this thing I'd done—something good. And it doesn't begin to put a dent in the suffering I've caused, but I wanted to keep living in that place, near your world, someone I'd only helped and never hurt." He watches me with pain and doubt as he takes a hesitant step closer. "You gave me this beautiful piece of hope, Elena. I reconnected with Zach and Sarah. I wanted a new start, a real life again." His chin drops and his shoulders sag.

My body trembles and the tear hanging from the tip of my nose quivers. Stefan reaches for me with both hands. I wait, frozen until he makes contact and then collapse into his cautious embrace. My knees buckle, and Stefan comes with me to the floor. His bag flops onto its side on the hardwood and the strap falls limp from his shoulder. Stefan makes no move to untangle himself. The two buttons at the neck of his long sleeve Henley press into my cheek as I bury my face in his chest. He curls an arm around my waist and cups the back of my neck and head with the other hand.

"I have to leave," he whispers into my hair. "As much as I wish your life was the only one tipping the scales for me, my past is still my past. I won't let you get hurt because it." I push my hand against his chest between us and lift my head, leaving my palm still pressed against his sternum. My cheeks and neck itch wear the tears have started to dry. "Enzo will follow me, and Mystic Falls will be safe again. You'll be safe."

I shove his chest away. "And what about Sarah?" My voice is hoarse and doesn't sound like mine. Stefan casts his blank eyes down at the floor between our folded knees.

"I can't help her. If she's even—" Stefan can't finish the miserable conclusion. "I thought he might finally emerge, try to use Sarah as leverage, but he doesn't have to. Enzo will keep tormenting me from the shadows, and letting me think Sarah might still be alive was just part of the game. After what happened Saturday, I won't let you be next." Stefan pulls himself from the floor, urgent once again.

I tilt my head back to see him from this angle and furrow my brow. "So you think Enzo was behind the accident?"

Stefan frowns. "Compelling that boy to run Zach down?" His voice chokes on the sentence. "Yeah, and it wasn't a coincidence whose car he stole, either. It was a warning." Stefan's implication makes my heart race. His eyes dart paranoid around the room before landing back on me.

"You can't be here," Stefan tells me. "And I should go." He leans down to grab his bag, pulling the strap over his head and across his body.

He's already at the door by the time the clatter of something falling from his bag stops him.

A flat square the same size as the one he pulled from the journal makes a strange clink against the ground.

"Wait," I say, reaching for where it fell. It's an old tintype photograph. I flip it over, and a familiar face stares back at me but in a strange new context.

Black and white. Human. Alive. Defender of the South.

Lieutenant Damon Salvatore.

XXX

I push myself off the floor and cross the room to where Stefan has stopped. He's watching the photo in my hand as he twists his daylight ring around his finger. I pause beyond his reach and look back down at the fading image.

"This is your brother?" I ask as if I don't know.

"Yes." He extends his hand to retrieve it from me.

I ignore it. My eyes trace the features of the soldier in the photograph. I try to wrap my head around why I can't quite believe that it's the same sarcastic leather-clad Damon I know.

The soldier seems so much younger.

But he's still here. Despite mind-boggling odds against bizarre obstacles, Damon is still here. If Stefan knew that, it would change everything.

"Elena?" they both ask. Stefan's is impatience, and Damon's is a warning.

I look up from the naive soldier. His menacing counterpart is blocking my path to Stefan.

"What are you doing?" Damon asks with his eyes narrowed and his voice low. My eyes stay locked with his, even as I step to the side and around him. When we do break eye contact, its jarring.

It takes me a moment to refocus on Stefan who watches me with an expression between suspicion and concern. I extend the photo out between us to hand it back to him. He goes to take it, but I hold on as he tugs it with the expectation that I will release. His eyes jump to mine and narrow.

"Are you okay?" Stefan asks.

I nod. "But my brother's not." My confidence surprises me.

"Stop," Damon insists from beside us. "Whatever you think you're doing—Stop, right now, Elena." His body is so close that my skin vibrates with the disconcerting electricity of being near to him. I have to ignore it.

"If he were still alive—" I indicate the photo between us. "If he were here with us, wouldn't putting things right mean everything to you?" I release the metal square, but for a moment it hovers in place as Stefan considers my words.

"Yes," Stefan answers. The photo returns to his bag.

My eyes flick to Damon's. His stony face is unreadable. The shake of his head is slight but pointed. After I look away, he whispers, "You promised," in a way that sounds like a dare. I clench my eyes shut, so I don't look back at him.

"I have to do that for Jeremy," I tell Stefan with my eyes still closed. "Whatever the truth is, I need to find it out for him. I need to find Sarah, find Enzo. And if you're right, if Sarah is dead, and Enzo can't be stopped—I want you to take it all away, to make him forget, like Caroline." I pull in a deep breath and meet his wide green eyes. "Then you can leave."

Stefan stands frozen for a moment with his mouth parted, before shaking his head. "You don't want that. Compelling that much away, it leaves holes, empty spaces that are hard to explain. And how do you expect to find Enzo or Sarah? He's covered all his tracks. The photos Zach developed in Grove Hill are gone." He looks down at his hands wrapped around the strap of the messenger bag.

I can't stop myself from glancing back to Damon as I answer, "I know someone who can help."

"Fuck."

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	23. Grace

**Hello, again! I know it's been ages. And I really have been waiting ages for you guys to have the chance to read this one. Thank you so much for all of your kind reviews. I'm so grateful for all of you.**

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 **Thanks to NorahB for her beta help on this chapter. A little birdie told me that it's her birthday, so HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Norah! Make it a special one and drop by and give her post series fic, The New Normal a read and review (if you haven't already)!**

 **Also a thank you and a shout out to Florencia7 for reccing my story. If that's why you're reading now, Welcome! If for some reason you're reading this but have never read any of her fics, make it one of your next stops. She just put up a four part fic called A Thousand Miles & a Hundred Years about season 8 Damon and season 1 Elena (if you're wondering how that's possible, than definitely give it a read) and if you're looking for a little Christmas in April, she has a post series Christmas fic that will give you all the warm fuzzies!**

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 _Yes, there's a lot we can,_

 _We can learn from this loss_

 _Learn not to let it fall around our ears_

 _Don't fall in love with the,_

 _With the way things were_

 _It'll fuck up your mind_

 _It'll fuck up your mind_

 _For this is all on the wings of others_

 _Don't give in_

 _Don't you dare quit so easy_

 _This is your_ _ **grace**_

 _\- Snow Patrol_

"How long has this been going on?" Stefan asks. "How long have you been seeing these ghosts?" There's skepticism in his voice as we sit perched on the short brick wall at the edge of the house's covered driveway.

"Ghost," I correct him. "One. I mean there are others—I think." Stefan's skeptical brow furrows into confusion. "I haven't come across anyone else," I add while trying to avoid Damon's looming presence. He stands stoic in the arch of the doorway, watching me with dark, narrowed eyes.

I thought this middle ground, admitting I see ghosts, but not that the one I see is Damon, would be the perfect compromise. Lie a little less to Stefan, maintain Damon's trust. But somehow it's wedged me awkwardly between both brothers in the worst way possible.

I steal a look at Damon. His expression is unchanging, on the precipice of betrayal, preparing to leap. Stefan's eyes follow mine, and he scrutinizes the empty air. I try to recapture his attention.

"Since that night on the bridge." It feels strange to say it out loud. "I didn't see anything until about a week after I left the hospital; me and Jeremy were staying with Caroline and her mom. It was even longer before I could believe I wasn't going crazy, that I was really seeing him." Stefan remains quiet. I don't know why I'm saying this now, to him. It's taken me the four months since the accident to discover and accept it myself. "But I've felt different ever since I woke up after the accident, and it scared me to admit, because it meant that this wasn't just something that happened to me, it was something that altered me." I tuck my chin in, but I can feel both men watching me.

"Stefan?" My voice quivers without my permission. "What happened that night?" I watch his open hand as he flexes it against the outer thigh of his jeans.

"I saw the rail was out on the bridge when I was leaving Mystic Falls. I jumped in after the car, but I was too late for your parents." His breath hitches. "I thought I was too late for you too. You and your parents were already unconscious, but I could still hear your heart. It stopped while I was pulling you out of the water." My eyes begin to sting and well with tears, but I'm more prepared to hold them back this time. I blink a couple of times to clear the extra moisture and calm myself with a couple of slow breaths.

"I was dead?" My voice is soft, but it fills all the space around us.

"Pretty close." Stefan's tone is gentle and kind, but it's not his face I search for as the words settle in my chest. Damon's not looking at me anymore. He's staring away into the distance. His face is taut and grim, but less severe.

I died. My body stopped.

For how long? Seconds? Minutes? I used to think death was an all or nothing kind of thing—a childish notion I no longer have the luxury of indulging in. Something happened to me while my body was cold in the water, and it changed me forever.

The water took my parents.

It gave me Damon.

What do I do with that?

I don't notice how long I'm staring until Stefan leans in to draw my focus back to him. "This ghost, he's been following you around everywhere since your parents died?" There's a seriousness in Stefan's tone mixed with the disgust in his expression that I realize isn't directed at me. His eyes keep darting to a spot a little too far to the left of where Damon's actually standing, but I get the idea.

I shake my head to dispel whatever stalkery haunting he's imagining. "It's not like that," I say. "He doesn't really have a choice." It doesn't do the truth total justice. Judging by his face, Stefan seems to have a similar complaint with my explanation.

"But he can come and go as he pleases?"

"To an extent."

Stefan's eyes narrow critically, but he switches angles. "He thinks he can find Enzo and Sarah?"

I nod. "He's trying. It's harder with people he didn't know, you know _before_." I don't see Stefan's reaction because I'm watching for Damon's. He's released the rigid tension that coiled in his features as he prepared for me to betray his identity to Stefan. His face is slack and his eyes distant with disinterest—still a protest, but an improvement over threatening glares. It shouldn't matter, but seeing some of his trust in me returned makes me feel so much lighter.

"Why?" Stefan calls me back.

"Huh?" I mutter, distracted.

"He agreed to help you? Just like that?" I'm beginning to take offense at the insinuation in Stefan's critical tone that I'm being taken advantage of in some way. There's a—probably unintended—secondary insinuation that I'm too naive to realize that's what's happening, but it's starting to rub me the wrong way.

"Because I asked him to." One of Stefan's eyebrows shoots up in dubious challenge to my sharp tone. I sigh, trying to expel my annoyance. Would this be easier if I could explain who Damon is?

I don't expect to meet his narrowed, icy blue gaze when my eyes drift back in Damon's direction. My heart gallops from paranoia that he might read my thoughts on my face, might begin to doubt my intentions again. Startled, my attention darts back to Stefan.

I release the breath caught in my throat slowly and close my eyes for a long moment. "There was family he cared for once in the same way I would do anything for Jeremy. He seems to understand where I'm coming from." Stefan doesn't look convinced, but he lets it go. Damon rolls his eyes, appalled at my sentimentality.

Silence stretches between us, and Stefan stares out past the expansive and manicured lawn and into the forest beyond it.

"Elena—" There's doubt in Stefan's voice.

"Please stay," I interrupt whatever goodbye he was preparing.

He frowns. "Even if your ghost can help, it isn't safe. It's better if I go—" he trails off, inviting me to argue an alternative.

"Look Stefan," I harden my voice. "You wanted a new life, a new start—Then at some point you have to stop running. If what you have here means something to you, then stay. Defend it." He doesn't have a response prepared for that. His lips press into a thin line.

"Keep it up." Damon's voice makes me jump. He nods, reassuring me. I'm closer to a breakthrough than I realize.

I reach for Stefan's shoulder, and he looks down at my hand.

"You saved my life." Stefan's eyes lift to mine and widen. "Do you still think coming to Mystic Falls was a mistake?" His lips part. The hope and vulnerability in his expression finally matches the youth of the seventeen year-old body he's been trapped in for lifetimes.

He shakes his head, "I don't kn—"

I give his shoulder a gentle squeeze and pull back. "Then promise you won't decide anything before the funeral? That you won't leave without saying goodbye?"

Stefan moves to speak then lets out a breath instead, nodding. "I promise."

If I could only extract the same promise from Damon.

 **XXX**

"So, these Augustine people captured Damon in the fifties, and Stefan thinks he died five years later when he tried to escape, but really they captured him again until your dad killed him for almost killing you." Bonnie's hands move in front of her as she gestures to keep track of the different threads of the story. "And Enzo was Damon's cellmate and best friend who escaped and is tormenting Stefan for being too busy trying not to eat people to figure out that his brother needed rescuing?"

I nod to confirm that she's hit all the major points. We're sitting with our legs crossed, facing each other on Bonnie's bed at her Grams' house. Bonnie's dad hasn't made it back from his business trip yet.

"And you told Stefan that you see a ghost that can help you find Enzo, but not that the one you see is his brother. Because Damon doesn't want you to?" This time her question is more than a clarification, but a challenge. I tip my head to the side and lift my eyebrows in a pointed answer.

"It's not my secret to tell. And, anyway finding Enzo and Sarah is the priority." I avoid meeting her eyes for a moment.

"Mmhmm." Bonnie pulls her hands back into the afghan she tightens around her shoulders. "So that's what Damon's doing right now? Looking for Enzo?"

I nod again.

"Enough about me." It's not changing the subject if she's the one that redirected it to Stefan and Damon in the first place. It's been almost an hour, and we still haven't addressed the shadows under Bonnie's eyes, or the way she keeps her small frame curled in on itself. "What's going on? Something happened that night, right before the crash, didn't it?"

Bonnie looks down at her lap. "The dreams I've been having, they're not always when I'm asleep. They're real." Her voice is quiet and weak. "This last week, all of the weirdness, it was showing me what was going to happen. I didn't understand until—" Her lips tremble.

Is she saying that she—?

"What do you mean?" She looks up at me with her eyes wide and glossy. My heart twists in my chest.

"I had this dream in history class last week. It was dark; Chad Carpenter was behind one of the athletic buildings with a case of beer. He offered me a hit off whatever he was smoking. Then, when I woke up there were these numbers scribbled over and over on my notes, that I don't remember writing." I scoot forward so I can reach her knee and give her a comforting squeeze through the blanket. "When we were walking back to your car, I couldn't shake this dread that something horrible was going to happen. We were in the parking lot, and I had this weird deja vu of us in the locker room, but it was from someone else's eyes, watching us." Goosebumps crawl up my arm as Bonnie continues. "The crash happened, and I was standing there with the Sheriff after everything. Dispatch was repeating some code over the radio; it was the numbers from my notes." Her throat tightens on the last of her words. She uncovers a hand to reach for mine, and our fingers intertwine.

I lean forward and use our linked hands to pull her onto her knees and into a hug. I let go of her hand to wrap my arms around her, and she rests her head in the crook of my neck.

"I'm sorry, Bon." Her tiny body shakes in my embrace. I pull back from her and grip her shoulders with both my hands. Her distraught eyes lock on mine. "None of this is your fault. You know that right?"

"I know," she whimpers and rubs her nose on the blanket. "I just don't understand the point of it all. There wasn't enough to change anything. So why?" She lets out a long breath and crosses her legs again. I release her shoulders and lay my hands back down in my lap.

"I don't know," I say with a listless shake of the head. "Try to trust your instincts, I guess."

"I tried focusing it, like with the magic, but I don't have any control. I just end up feeling exhausted." She lifts her arms and the blanket to indicate the state I found her in when Grams let me in to see her.

"Yeah. Caroline came by while you were taking a nap. Right before she showed up at my place to demand an explanation for missing practice. What does your Grams say about it all?" Bonnie winces and leans over to retrieve her cellphone from her nightstand. The light in the corner blinks with missed calls and unanswered messages.

"She says, Elena Gilbert better get home before her aunt shows up here to drag you there herself," a voice answers from the doorway. Sheila McCullough's short stature doesn't make her any less intimidating as she leans against the doorjam waggling the cordless phone.

Crap. Jenna.

I jump up from the bed, and look around for my shrug. "Thanks, Miss Sheila," I call after the woman as she disappears back into the house.

I grab my sweater from the rug by the bed where it fell, grimacing at Bonnie apologetically. She sets her cell aside and reaches out to take my hand as I contemplate the level of freak-out to expect at home.

"Hey," She squeezes my hand to refocus my scrambling attention. "Want to see something cool?" Her smile is sweet and genuine, and it pauses my rush to leave.

I answer with a small smile of my own. "Sure."

She releases my hand to face forward, straightens her posture on the bed, and closes her eyes. She opens her hands in front of her, palms up. Her fingers flex and clench at the knuckles as if they're meeting some sort of resistance.

I hold my breath.

Bonnie's hands start to rise and with them comes every small inanimate object in the room. A tube of lipgloss, an empty mug, a pair of sneakers, the Mini Coop keys—They've all forgotten they have to obey gravity. They lift into the air and start moving in a slow counter-clockwise circle around us and the room. My mouth falls open. I lift my chin to watch as it all begins to spin faster with each lap.

Bonnie releases the tension in her upturned hands, unfurling them. Everything slows to a stop, suspended. I reach up and pluck the car keys out of thin air. I gasp as the rest of it drops and then settles back into its original place without a crash or a clatter.

My widened eyes land back on Bonnie. Her hands have dropped into her lap, her eyes are open again, and she's grinning up at me. It's so beautiful, I can't stop myself from grinning back. I lean over for another hug and lay my head against her shoulder.

Holy crap.

"Wow," I whisper in awe at her ear.

 **XXX**

I've been to my share of funerals; the size of that number is bizarre. Before my parents, none of them were even for relatives. Both sets of our grandparents passed before Jer was born or I could form long term memories. There's a history of infertility on the Sommers side and a series of misfortunes and mental afflictions on the Gilbert side that has limited the size of our extended family. Aunt Jenna and Uncle John are the only ones we have left.

But just as the other founding families and pillars of the community appeared, casseroles in hand, at my parents' wake, so too has the same gesture always been expected of us. It's one of those strange Mystic Falls traditions that I never realized was strange. Not until standing here at the funeral of another founding family member with less than twenty people in attendance.

Our community doesn't say goodbye to anyone without a proper Southern sendoff. And yet, Zach Salvatore's departure seems to be the exact opposite of everything I've grown to know as ordinary.

There was no memorial service at the church, and there will be no wake.

There was no funeral procession. Instead, we're all gathered in the cemetery to wait for a graveside service my shoes were not prepared for. Unlike the rest of the founding families, the Salvatores do not have a plot in the modern part of the cemetery. Every deceased member of the barely surviving line, since Guiseppe himself, has been buried or interred right alongside him.

I look over at the weathered mausoleum with the Salvatore name carved into the mantle. I imagine it would have been rather grand once. The encroaching vines and soil-darkened stones show how little attention it's received since then. No one has fought the surrounding forest's attempt to reclaim this space, the boundaries of which are only marked by where the trees grow more dense. The mourners gathered here, waiting, don't belong.

Sheriff Forbes stands across the clearing in the same black dress she wore to my parents funeral. She looks very displeased to be entertaining Carol Lockwood, the mayor's wife and Tyler's mother. Carol, unaccompanied by her husband or son, hasn't given Liz a chance to break away since we arrived. She keeps leaning in to whisper something to her with a concerned look to which Liz's response always seems inadequate.

Logan Fell, the local newscaster, is the only Fell I recognize. To be fair, the extended branches of the Fell family have grown so large I can't put a name to half of them. A few other members of the community, an underdressed young woman wearing a doctor's lab coat, and the woman who did the housekeeping for the boarding house fill out the intimate gathering.

I glance over at Caroline where she stands with Bonnie and Grams, positioned as far away from her mother as possible. I'm not sure if Liz insisted on her attendance. These occasions are almost never scheduled on a school day, but Caroline's agenda is rather clear. Her eyes keep darting in the direction of the small path leading into the clearing. She's even more anxious than the rest of us for the last member of our party to arrive with Pastor Young and Zach's remains.

I shift the collar of my dress; it's loose, not a perfect fit like it was when I wore it to my parents' burial. Fiddling with it is a distraction. I'm avoiding the mourners standing closest to me. Looking at my brother's dark empty expression brings back chest tightening memories of the weeks he spent in his room, inconsolable, before connecting with Sarah. Jenna's face and shoulders are tense with worry, and it just serves to compound my guilt.

I wrap my arms around myself against a chill. My chaste, black dress has a boatneck neckline but no sleeves, and I left my shawl in the car. When we arrived, the sun was shining with the last warmth of summer, and I thought I wouldn't need it. Sheltered amongst the old trees, it's much easier to feel the crisp beginnings of fall.

I wish Damon were here. He's always a good distraction.

Shit. No. I take it back.

Can I do that?

I close my eyes. Think of something else.

Three, twelve, seventeen. Three, twelve, seventeen. Three, twe—My locker combo.

Since Damon started looking for Enzo yesterday, I've been trying not to mess it up by 'calling' him back to me. He's getting better at resisting it, but this morning he appeared in my window seat wearing his satisfied grin like a medal. The smarmy bastard thinks all I do is think about him, and he finds it hilarious.

Damn. I'm doing it again.

Heads turn towards the sound of footsteps as the Pastor enters the organic circle we've created with his head bowed. Stefan follows behind, an urn with matte bronzed finish cradled against his chest.

 **XXX**

The service is short. The Pastor delivers his sermon. Stefan gives the eulogy in which he thanks Zach for his generosity and for taking him into his home and family. No one seems to notice the underlying insinuation that he now has neither. They lower the urn into a small, prepared plot of land near a memorial bench. It's at the edge of the gathered headstones farthest from where I stand. Stefan covers it with a ceremonial fistful of dirt.

I notice Damon leaning in the doorway of the crypt, between the cast iron bars of the outer gate and the inner door. I'm not sure if he's here because of my lapse in thoughts earlier. Or maybe, he has some interest in paying respects to the grandson of the man that sold him out to Augustine.

Despite the distraction I wished for earlier, I'm not ready to hear another update on his fruitless search.

I lift my head to look at Jeremy. Stefan doesn't think compelling away his memories will work, but it's hard to imagine continuing like this. All my hope hangs on the sliver of a chance that Sarah is still alive, that my brother can still be reunited with her.

A receiving line forms where Stefan stands at the fresh grave and stretches around the edge of the clearing. Everyone waits to offer their condolences. I wrap my arm inside of my brother's. Jeremy doesn't respond, but he doesn't pull away. I lay my head down soft against his shoulder. He's looking at the single file of people with wide and distant eyes; he makes no move to join them.

Jenna stepped aside during the service when Logan Fell approached her. Logan leaves their awkward and tense exchange to join the end of the line. The three of us and Damon are the only ones left who haven't. Jenna looks pissed until she sees me standing with Jeremy, and the harried frustration drains from her features. She starts back to us with a somber frown, stumbling more than once to pull her heels out of the uneven ground.

"The nerve of that man," she grumbles. I unwrap myself from Jeremy, as she leans on me for support to readjust her pump. "Asking for a date at a funeral."

"What?" I ask. My eyes widen in surprise as they find Logan again. Jenna lifts her weight off of me.

She scoffs. "Didn't your mother ever tell you why I left Mystic Falls?"

"Him?" I ask, incredulous. Logan cuts in line, moving from where he joined at the very end to near the beginning to talk to the Sheriff. It's hard to imagine Logan Fell—with his sports coats and striped ties, slicked back hair and thin smile—as Jenna's type. I always thought she had a weakness for loners and outcasts.

When I look back at Jenna, she nods, her nose scrunched up and her lip curling. She catches Jeremy's expression, and her eyebrows furrow. Her pained frown returns. She glances over at the shortening line of sympathizers and then back at me to exchange a silent agreement: we should go.

"The trek up here killed my feet, and I'm exhausted." Jeremy looks at Jenna, but doesn't say anything. "Let's head back, maybe grab some takeout," she urges with a weak smile.

I hesitate. Stefan is still busy accepting condolences, and from here, I can't judge his state of mind. I wanted to say something to him, but I never expected the service to be so minimal. I never had a chance—

I know the best thing for Jeremy is getting him home. Jenna presses a hand to my wrist. "We'll send flowers to the house," she offers and adds, "Nice ones," after I continue to linger.

Caroline was persuaded into joining her mom in line, and they're coming up next. Sheriff Forbes steps to the side to wait for her daughter. As Caroline begins to address him, Stefan's eyes look past her and meet mine. I try to convey what I'd intended to say and offer a sad smile as apology. Stefan frowns and mouths for me to 'Wait.' He interrupts Caroline's lengthy speech to excuse himself and leaves her standing, struck speechless, with her mouth open. Incredulous, she stares as he jogs away from the remaining line of polite acquaintances over to me.

That's not going to go over well later.

"Elena?" Jenna presses with a note of worry in her voice. I don't have time to respond before Stefan approaches.

"Jeremy, Miss Sommers." Stefan acknowledges them with a nod. "Thank you for coming. Do you mind if I steal a word with Elena before you go?"

"Uh . . ." Jenna falters as she looks to me.

Glancing again at Jeremy's vacant expression, I assure her, "It'll just be a minute." Stefan gives them a smile to reassure them of the same.

"Okay." Jenna squeezes my hand before releasing it. She moves from my side to Jeremy's. "We're so sorry for your loss," she tells Stefan before looking at me. "We can wait for you at the car." Jeremy takes a step toward the main path out of the cemetery.

"No," I call. It'd turn heads if they weren't all swiveled in this direction already. I reach my hand out after them. "Please, wait. I won't be long, I promise. I don't want to get lost on the way back." That's a lie; I know my way out now. But after Damon's warning about Enzo's daylight ring, I have no desire to walk back through the woods alone. Or to let them.

Jenna agrees with a reluctant, "Mmm."

They both take a step away, and I join Stefan in the shadow of his family's mausoleum.

 **XXX**

"Stefan," I reach out to take his hand, "I know how hard all of this is. I just wanted to tell you that I really do think Zach would be so proud that you decided to stay," I tell him in a hushed whisper. On this side of the crypt, we're hidden from view from everyone except Jenna and Jeremy. But I'm not sure who might be able to hear us.

Stefan pulls his hand from mine. He won't make eye contact.

Damon rounds the corner from the front of the building and stops a few steps behind Stefan. He stands behind his brother's back, in a black suit and tie, as if he were Stefan's shadow. They sure do make an attractive pair.

But it's hard to take my eyes off of Damon. I hadn't realized he dressed for the occasion when he stood in the dark alcove of the mausoleum. Though I've noticed his ability to change the appearance of his wardrobe in the past, nothing has been quite as drastic. The expensive looking material and sleek, modern cut of the suit leaves quite an impression. And it's been decades since he's had the opportunity to wear one that actually existed.

Despite my unabashed gawking, Damon doesn't greet me in any way. He leans his shoulder up against the ivy-covered stone wall and looks on with wary curiosity.

Stefan's face is grim. He's fidgeting with his tie.

"Zach wouldn't want to be dead." He meters out the words in a slow, inflectionless rhythm. "He'd want to be here with his daughter. And I shouldn't let his death be in vain. I won't let any more people be hurt because of me." The emotion starts to leak back into his voice. "I'm leaving after the funeral."

My breath escapes my chest, and I can't quite catch it again.

"What?!" I gasp after a moment. "No." I shake my head.

"You don't need me, Elena," Stefan continues. "It's better this way. Once I leave, things will start to go back to normal."

I look over his left shoulder at Damon. No, they won't.

"So, this is goodbye then?" I manage. My eyes are still locked on Damon. He doesn't seem surprised in the slightest. Something in my gut starts to burn.

"Like I promised," Stefan answers.

My eyes dart back to his. His face is resolute, resigned. "You're going to run, then? Abandon Sarah?" It's becoming difficult to keep my voice low.

Stefan shakes his head, pulling something from the inside pocket of his jacket. "You can leave me messages at this number." He extends a folded piece of paper between us. "If your ghost finds anything, you can let me know, but this will draw Enzo away—" His voice is as soft and even as ever. My hands curl into fists.

I look down at the paper but don't take it. "And what if you leaving means he decides she's not worth keeping alive?"

His brows furrow in a frustrated scowl, but he doesn't say anything. I turn my demanding gaze on his brother.

Damon's eyes widen. "Don't look at me. I thought the whole 'you saved my life, coming here wasn't a mistake' thing took."

I narrow my eyes at him. "This is completely ridiculous. You think running away is a good idea?" My gut starts to churn with the frustration of being in the middle of this.

"He's leaving; he's not flipping his switch, not slaughtering all the village folk. That's a win in my brother's book." Damon pushes off the wall and shrugs. I grit my teeth against the things I wish I could yell at him.

Stefan's eyes follow my exchange with confusion. "Elena, is he here—?" But I ignore him.

"You really have so little faith in him? You think he can't handle _this_?" His bright blue eyes are locked on mine, and I know he understands that I mean more than just Stefan staying in Mystic Falls.

"Don't, Elena," he warns, moving to Stefan's side.

"—Are you talking to—"

I turn on Stefan. He jumps, startled by my disconcerting shift between the invisible third wheel in our conversation and him.

"What if Sarah weren't the only reason to stay in Mystic Falls? What if—"

Damon leaps between us, and he's so close I take an involuntary step backward. He leans down to close the small gap in our heights and puts his face in mine. I can't focus on his eyes, they're so close. I'm watching his lips as they form each word with emphatic precision, "Let. It. Go."

My whole body buzzes with the uncomfortable electricity of Damon's proximity. It's infuriating. Can I not control anything in my damn life anymore?

"Elena?" I can hear Stefan's voice trying to regain my attention, but I'm too mad.

"No." I pull my face far enough away from Damon to focus on the dangerous blue of his eyes. I will not look away this time. "I'm sick of everyone deciding what's best for me, how much truth to tell me, bossing me around while leaving out half the story. You're dead, and I'm not, and whether you like it or not, we _are_ stuck with each other. So, if you want to keep telling me what to do you're going to have to explain why It's so damn important that I d—"

"Elena!" Stefan's voice presses in. He's walked out of the shelter of the mausoleum and back amongst the gravestones. His father's headstone separates him from my brother and Jenna. The heat in my cheeks blossoms from frustration into embarrassment. How could it have looked to them to see my passionate discourse with thin air?

But no one seems too concerned with me. They're looking across the clearing in the direction of Zach's gravesite where all the other funeral-goers remain blocked from view.

Damon pushes his lips together in a thin line, holding back his response to turn and see too.

Did everyone hear us?

I frown at Damon, because this is entirely his fault. But he's already taken a few strides in Stefan's direction, and I have to jog to catch up.

With a brother at each side, I have a clear view of the funeral party.

No one is watching us. The remaining condolence line has disolved, and they're all congregated around something of interest. I'm not sure what. I move forward to see better, leaving Stefan and Damon behind.

Jenna is kicking up clods of earth with her heels as she runs across to join them. My brother starts to follow with hesitant and heavy steps.

With a closer view, I can see the center of everyone's concern is a girl with torn and dirty clothes. Her dark hair is arranged in what would have been a braid. So many strands have been pulled loose and tangled with others, it's now an unrecognizable mass adorned with stray leaves. It looks as if she's stepped straight out of the forest, and stumbled into our gathering. Dazed and unsteady, she leans all her weight onto the Sheriff.

My slow steps are automatic. I know this girl, but it isn't possible—

"Oh my god." Stefan flies past me. "It's—"

Jeremy comes to a sudden stop.

"Sarah?!" My brother's voice breaks on her name.

 **It's a cliffie! *peeks through fingers***

 **Wait, wait, don't leave yet! Even if you normally skip over AN's (which I take no offense to, I can be a bit chatty, but this is an important one).**

 ***This is music fangirl stuff, you can skip this if you want*, but tune back in after this please!**

 **Ookay, so like five percent of the delay on this chapter was finding the right title and song to fit it. Like, I literally spent a whole Sunday, going through my music to find the right song. For some reason, all the songs in my spotify are about romance and relationships, even the sad ones, so nothing really fit. And TVD has always been so good at finding those wonderfully haunting songs for the many funerals on the show, so I wanted to do it justice.**

 **Enter, Snow Patrol, one of my favorite bands and a master of hauntingly beautiful ballads and lyrics. Unfortunately, they have not released a new album since 2011. That's 7 years. That is, until now! Don't Give In is the first single from their new album that drops in May (also Florence + the Machine are also dropping a new album soon and just released a single from it, so I'm kinda in music lover heaven right now). I gave it a listen along with their other single. They're both amazing, but this just so happened to be the perfect one.**

 **With its themes of grief, loss, and forgiveness its basically a modern version of amazing grace, which is exactly what I wanted for Zach's funeral. I'm not really religious, but I do believe and love the concept of grace, or a sort of unconditional forgiveness, and so that's where the title comes from. It so perfectly fit the dynamic of Stefan and Damon in this chapter and Elena's relationships with them.**

 **Alright, so I'm done squeeing over music stuff. If you want to give the official playlist for this story a listen, it's on spotify under YOU BECOME: A DELENA FANFICTION SOUNDTRACK**

 **IF YOU SKIPPED THE ABOVE, THIS IS THE TIME TO TUNE BACK IN!**

 **Okay, so I have a favor to ask of you guys. One of my oldest friends, like we've been friends for over 13 years now (half my life), is a self-published indie author, and it's her first bookiversary. She's published two books in a four book series in the last year. In July, she's going to her first convention to release her third book and promote her series, and I'm going along to help her out. She's just starting out, and you know, I'm still writing fanfiction . . . so we're trying to raise some funds to help us out with this trip.**

 **I have started a gofundme campaign that explains everything in more detail. Since I can't share a link here, I've linked it on my twitter. Follow me, McSamLou and you should find the link in my recent tweets.**

 **I would appreciate greatly any help you could offer, even if it's just a simple share on your social media. (Also, her books are wonderful, and if they seem interesting to you, the first book, IF WE HAD NO WINTER is a super cheap paperback on amazon right now).**

 **As a special thank you to anyone to any of my lovely fanfiction readers willing to offer a donation, I'd love to reward you with a little something. If you make a donation, PM me with the name you made the donation under, and I'll write you a little one-shot as a thank you. If you have a song (cause you know how much music inspires me) that you always thought would fit Delena so well, or a missing scene from the show, some post-series scenes, or even some AU wish-fufillment stuff you've always wanted to read you can let me know, and I'd be willing to work on something special for you. You'll get it exclusively a week before anyone else sees it (if I decide I'd like to post it.) Length is subject to my discretion (but if you've been pretty generous, I won't let you down). This offer is open to you guys until the end of July, when we'll be taking our trip so don't miss out.**

 **I know this is a little unconventional, so if it's not something you're interested in, and you're just here for the slow-burn Delena goodness, I understand. And I love and appreciate you always. You Become will keep chugging along until it's finished, and I will gleefully consume all of your lovely feedback as we go!**

 **Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the update, and I'll get the next one up soon, so you're not hanging in suspense too long!**

 **Sarah's alive, and she's just in time for her father's funeral! Were you expecting that one? Leave me a review to let me know what you think.**

 **Love you all!**


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